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🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
Two rival pack alphas unite through marriage, making their children unwilling step-siblings. When he saves her from bullies, a mate bond ignites. She plans to break it before the next full moon; he bets she’ll fall first, using a secret to bind her. Under one roof, rivalry turns into forbidden love.
Emma cae en una trampa y pasa una noche con el millonario Aaron Wilson. Después, cría sola a cinco hijos prodigio. Cinco años más tarde regresa y descubre que él está comprometido. Decididos a reunirlos, los niños e
Two rival pack alphas unite through marriage, making their children unwilling step-siblings. When he saves her from bullies, a mate bond ignites. She plans to break it before the next full moon; he bets she’ll fall first, using a secret to bind her. Under one roof, rivalry turns into forbidden love.
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
Two rival pack alphas unite through marriage, making their children unwilling step-siblings. When he saves her from bullies, a mate bond ignites. She plans to break it before the next full moon; he bets she’ll fall first, using a secret to bind her. Under one roof, rivalry turns into forbidden love.
Durante diez años, fingió ser frágil y sin voz, soportando las humillaciones de su madre💔 Su hermanastra presumía de su poderoso protector👊 Si eso importa, ella se lo quitaría🔥 Dicen que él es frío y no se acerca.mp4
Emma cae en una trampa y pasa una noche con el millonario Aaron Wilson. Después, cría sola a cinco hijos prodigio. Cinco años más tarde regresa y descubre que él está comprometido. Decididos a reunirlos, los niños e
Lila is five when her uncle Harold and aunt Karen abandon her. Jonathan, a kind billionaire, finds her and takes her home. He adopts her, and from that day, the house feels brighter. Lila brings luck and warmth. Noah, Jonathan’s son, has not spoken for a long time; with Lila by his side, he finally finds his voice. At an auction, she helps Jonathan win a hidden treasure chest. She even “talks” with the family dog and follows the hint to help Noah find his missing violin. When danger rises, Lila “forces” Harold and the schemer Vivienne to tell the truth. The lies fall apart. She helps the family get out of harm’s way, exposes the schemes, and leaves Harold, Karen, and Vivienne with nowhere to hide.
Emma cae en una trampa y pasa una noche con el millonario Aaron Wilson. Después, cría sola a cinco hijos prodigio. Cinco años más tarde regresa y descubre que él está comprometido. Decididos a reunirlos, los niños e
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
Lila is five when her uncle Harold and aunt Karen abandon her. Jonathan, a kind billionaire, finds her and takes her home. He adopts her, and from that day, the house feels brighter. Lila brings luck and warmth. Noah, Jonathan’s son, has not spoken for a long time; with Lila by his side, he finally finds his voice. At an auction, she helps Jonathan win a hidden treasure chest. She even “talks” with the family dog and follows the hint to help Noah find his missing violin. When danger rises, Lila “forces” Harold and the schemer Vivienne to tell the truth. The lies fall apart. She helps the family get out of harm’s way, exposes the schemes, and leaves Harold, Karen, and Vivienne with nowhere to hide.
After being cast aside by the woman he helped rise to power, Arthur Storm—secret CEO of the powerful Titan Group—is thrust back into the spotlight when a mysterious billionaire proposes marriage, shaking high society to its core.
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
Two rival pack alphas unite through marriage, making their children unwilling step-siblings. When he saves her from bullies, a mate bond ignites. She plans to break it before the next full moon; he bets she’ll fall first, using a secret to bind her. Under one roof, rivalry turns into forbidden love.
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
Two rival pack alphas unite through marriage, making their children unwilling step-siblings. When he saves her from bullies, a mate bond ignites. She plans to break it before the next full moon; he bets she’ll fall first, using a secret to bind her. Under one roof, rivalry turns into forbidden love.
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
Two rival pack alphas unite through marriage, making their children unwilling step-siblings. When he saves her from bullies, a mate bond ignites. She plans to break it before the next full moon; he bets she’ll fall first, using a secret to bind her. Under one roof, rivalry turns into forbidden love.
Emma cae en una trampa y pasa una noche con el millonario Aaron Wilson. Después, cría sola a cinco hijos prodigio. Cinco años más tarde regresa y descubre que él está comprometido. Decididos a reunirlos, los niños e
Después de dejar atrás su vida como heredera multimillonaria, Renata se dedica a ayudar a su esposo a recuperarse de un estado vegetativo y perseguir sus sueños en el fútbol. Sin embargo, tras sufrir un devastador aborto espontáneo, se enfrenta a una verdad brutal: el hombre por quien lo sacrificó todo podría haber elegido a otra persona.
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”
Lila is five when her uncle Harold and aunt Karen abandon her. Jonathan, a kind billionaire, finds her and takes her home. He adopts her, and from that day, the house feels brighter. Lila brings luck and warmth. Noah, Jonathan’s son, has not spoken for a long time; with Lila by his side, he finally finds his voice. At an auction, she helps Jonathan win a hidden treasure chest. She even “talks” with the family dog and follows the hint to help Noah find his missing violin. When danger rises, Lila “forces” Harold and the schemer Vivienne to tell the truth. The lies fall apart. She helps the family get out of harm’s way, exposes the schemes, and leaves Harold, Karen, and Vivienne with nowhere to hide.
🔞An enemies-to-lovers office romance where every meeting feels like f0replay. 🔥 --------------- Maggie's POV My life at twenty-eight looks pretty good. I have a decent job. Fashion designer at a mid-sized fast-fashion brand in New York. I have a stable boyfriend, Lucas. IT support. We've been together for two years, and lately we've even started talking about marriage. Everything looks perfect. But the truth? My life is like one of those $9.99 cardigans on Amazon. You know the type. Soft in the photos. Stylish. Easy to wear and look effortlessly chic. Reviews say things like, "Better than expected!" and "Looks way more expensive than it is!" But only I know the truth. The seams are already coming apart. Just a slight tug, and the whole thing unravels. Take my job, for example. Fashion designer. Sounds glamorous, right? Most people imagine me sketching original designs, picking luxurious fabrics, maybe even discussing next season's runway trends. Reality? I sit at my computer, taking the runway styles Sophia pulled and tweaking them—puff sleeves to straight sleeves, round necklines to square, buttons swapped for slightly different ones. Done. The designs go to production, and a few weeks later, they're on our website for $59.99. The company calls me a "designer." But honestly? I'm more like a high-end seamstress with a PhD in copyright avoidance. Three years ago, fresh out of art school, this was not the plan. Like every other fashion graduate, I was ambitious, optimistic, certain that my designs would one day hit the real runway—maybe even New York Fashion Week. My boss, Sophia—a woman dressed like she just walked out of The Devil Wears Prada—crushed that dream on day one. "I don't need your so-called design ideas. Who do you think you are? The next Coco Chanel?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just need you to take these existing ready-to-wear designs, tweak the details, and put them on the shelf. If you can do the job, stay. If you can't, HR's down the hall." For a moment, I wanted to throw Sophia and her knockoff designs into the trash and walk out in a blaze of glory. But I didn't. I slunk back to my desk and did exactly what Sophia said. Because I needed a job to pay my rent. Day after day, doing assembly-line work, enduring her endless critiques. Over and over I revised the same designs—most of the time only for her to decide the first version had been better all along. As for my boyfriend, Lucas. Ah, Lucas. He's a good guy. Reliable. Responsible. The kind of person you can trust with important work and never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, his approach to s3x is exactly the same as his approach to his job: follow the procedure. Every Wednesday night, he asks if I'd like to have s3x. A few kisses. A quick squeeze of my br3asts. I make the appropriate noises. Then he spr3ads my legs. In. Out. In. Out. A few minutes later, he finishes. Same day. Same position. Same duration. Honestly, if you timed it with a stopwatch, I'm pretty sure the margin of error would be under thirty seconds. Which is why I was a little shocked when he started talking about marriage. And yes—shocked is the right word. There was no warm feeling of happily ever after. Instead, my stomach gave a sudden, unpleasant twist. Was I really supposed to spend the rest of my life with a man who only did missionary every Wednesday? And in my panic, I may have said a few… less-than-coherent things. "I need time to think about it." "Uh… next Wednesday I'll probably have my period, so I can't come over. I'll reach out once it's done." And then I grabbed my bag and made a very quick exit. The next Wednesday night, I didn't visit Lucas. But I couldn't always avoid him. And now, 11 p.m., Friday night, I was at The Library, a nondescript basement bar in the East Village. Annie and I slid into our usual corner, ordering our usual drinks. Annie had been my roommate back in art school, now a freelance writer for a few artsy magazines. She came from money. Her parents bought her a West Village one-bedroom the day she graduated—floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a kitchen bigger than my entire apartment. But that didn't stop us from being inseparable. She was the only person who knew my "perfect" life was really just a cardigan falling apart at the seams. "I already know about your boss, the witch who makes you redo things eight times only to use the first version," Annie said, expertly squeezing a lemon twist into her whiskey. "But that can't be why you randomly dragged me out tonight. Skip to the real topic. What happened with Lucas?" “He mentioned marriage. Us. Two weeks ago.” I muttered weakly. Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “Ever since he brought up marriage,” I continued, lowering my voice, “something just… switched off in my head during s3x.” I paused. “I mean, sure, I used to think about other things sometimes before—but now I space out so badly it’s obvious. I might’ve even forgotten to moan at the usual timing. Even Lucas noticed.” I cleared my throat and tried to imitate his voice. “Maggie, what's going on? I feel like I'm having s3x with an unresponsive cardboard box. You're just… going through the motions.” “Thank God he finally noticed you were completely checked out?” Annie said dramatically. I shot her a glare. “Anyway, several times I just told him Sophia had me revising drafts all week and I was exhausted.” I took a sip of my drink. “So tonight I thought I’d try something different… offered to help him out with my hand first.” Annie leaned forward. “My logic was that if he finished once, round two would be quick.” “So I started… you know. Squeezing, stroking, hoping he’d finish quickly.” “Good lord,” Annie muttered, “you sound like a dairy worker rushing to milk the last cow of the day.” “That’s exactly it!” I said, eyes wide. “Lucas said almost the same thing. He suddenly got angry.” “He sat up and accused me of being completely emotionless, like some assembly-line milking worker clocking out! Honestly… that’s probably one of the few semi-funny metaphors he’s ever used.” “And then he kept going. Yelled I'm boring in bed. Said I'm phoning it in. Said it's like fking a dead fish.” “Tell me you fought back.” Annie leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Damn right, I did." I swallowed hard. "I was pissed too, and before I even thought, it just slipped out: 'Excuse me? You think you have any room to talk? Even m@sturbating with the showerhead in the bath is way more fun than having s3x with you. Being in bed with you is pure torture. I’ve never enjoyed a single second, let alone had an 0rgasm.'" Annie slowly lowered her glass. “…You said that.” “Yep.” She clicked her tongue in fascination. “And then?” “Well,” I said, taking another sip, “his face turned bright red. Like one of those exploding chili peppers from Plants vs. Zombies. He waved his hands around wildly, muttering a string of words I couldn’t even make out.” “Then he yelled, ‘We’re done! Get out of my house. Now!’” “I jumped up, pulled my clothes back on, and slammed his door as hard as I could on my way out… then texted you.” I paused, swirling the ice in my glass. “So… yeah. I guess we’re broken up.” “Not bad. Pretty entertaining, actually—not like I wasted my time ditching a smoking-hot dating prospect to come here.” Annie snapped her fingers and signaled the bartender for another drink. “But just one accusation, and you blow up? Doesn’t really sound like you.” I took a sip of my drink, trying to calm down. “It’s… the birthday stuff,” I said. “A week ago, on my birthday, he gave me those damn yellow tulips again.” “Yellow tulips?” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I’ve told him a million times. I HATE yellow tulips. No reason, really, I just do. “But he still gave them to me. Oh, and he gave me some stupid mechanical kit. I had no idea what it was for, couldn't even figure out how to use it.” “Normally, I might’ve just let it slide. But he brought up marriage, and I thought—at least this time he’d try to change a little. So I asked him why he got me that. I’d clearly told him I wanted that YSL perfume—I even sent him the link! And he just shrugged, ‘I think it’s fine.’ That’s it.” I set my glass down, feeling the anger bubble up again. “Then he started lecturing me. Even if I didn’t like it, I should appreciate it. Because it was thoughtful. Sh1t. ” “But when it’s his birthday, he doesn’t hesitate to have me get him exactly what he wants. He’s like a program running on autopilot—everything in his life, s3x, work, whatever, follows his own script.” “And somehow, the part called ‘Maggie’ never got loaded. I’m just sitting there, like a background process, completely invisible.” I took a sip. “Tonight, even though I was exhausted—Sophia had me working overtime all week—I still went when he asked me over. Honestly, I was a little surprised. At least it wasn’t Wednesday. That was progress, right? Maybe there would be other surprises too, since it was the first time he’d asked me out on a Friday.” “I got off work, went to his place… and sure enough, it was just s3x. And then he started criticizing me. That’s when I thought: screw it. I’m done holding back.” I let out a long, slow breath. Annie raised her glass. “Congrats. Finally.” I gave a bitter smile, but didn’t clink my glass. Congrats… really? I wasn’t exactly heartbroken, but… two years—there had been some feeling there. “Well, at least I don’t have to sulk over yellow tulips and that stupid mechanical model anymore,” I muttered. “Speaking of which,” Annie suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Got plans tomorrow?” “Saturday? What plans? Laundry, sleep in, maybe stock up at Trader Joe’s, and then popcorn on the couch with a movie at night.” “Cancel.” “What?” “Tomorrow, I’m taking you somewhere.” She was already digging through her phone. “To celebrate your singlehood. To celebrate your pvssi finally being freed from mechanical, boring s3x.” “What?” I nearly choked, waving my hands. “Forget it, I’m not in the mood.” “Nope. Not happening. I do not accept refusal.” She tapped away on her phone like lightning. “It’s booked.” She flashed me that grin. “Annie… every time you smile like that, I get scared,” I said, rubbing my hands nervously. “Don’t forget—I’m freshly heartbroken here.” “Exactly why you need a little crazy, fun, dopamine-inducing adventure,” she said, patting my hand. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Wearing that sexy black leather mini we bought together. I’m taking you somewhere that’ll launch your heartbreak straight out of the stratosphere.” Chapter 2 Maggie's pov When Annie pulled up in front of a building that looked like it had been abandoned for years, I was already starting to regret coming. A massive fluorescent graffiti mural covered the wall—a sultry dominatrix queen, whip raised high, elegantly lashing a man wearing a collar and kneeling at her feet. Around her, chains, collars, whips, and things I couldn't name. The whole wall seemed to be shouting: Welcome to a whole new world. I swallowed hard. “Annie,” I said, my voice tightening. “Is this… that kind of place?” “What kind of place?” “The kind you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean I like? Be specific.” Lowering my voice, I glanced around as if the graffiti might be listening. “You know—the kind with whips and chains.” Annie grinned. The kind of grin that said congratulations, you finally caught up with the plot. “Welcome to Night Banquet,” she said, spreading her arms like she was presenting a five-star resort. “The most famous BDSM club in this district.” I turned around immediately. "Nope. I came out to drink and complain about my ex. Not to get whipped by strangers—" The woman had practiced yoga for ten years; her core strength was terrifying. I was fairly certain she could drag a full-grown cow back by the horns if she wanted to. "Relax." She pulled me back toward the entrance. "No one does anything unless you agree. Safewords, masks, total privacy. Security is tighter than a one-night stand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "I promise." I still didn't move. Up until yesterday, my s3x life had consisted of missionary every Wednesday. And today— I was supposed to leap straight into a world of whips, chains, and anonymous masks? "Let's just go in and take a look," Annie said. "If you hate it, we'll just have a drink. Their Old Fashioned and truffle fries are legit the best in New York." With that, she practically dragged me to the door. She flashed her phone at the bouncer—some kind of membership code. He glanced at the screen, nodded, and stepped aside. The door opened. The moment I stepped inside, it felt like stepping into another world. A massive space stretched out before me, bathed in dark red light. The air was thick and warm, smelling of leather, candle wax, and something sweeter—maybe perfume, maybe something else. Deep bass pulsed through the room like a slow, steady heartbeat, vibrating under my skin. An attendant at the door handed us two simple feathered masks. I put mine on like a gas mask—like it was the only protection I had. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow, I finally started to see the people around me. Most wore masks. Elegant ones, some with lace, some with silver chains. The ones without masks had dramatic face paint—black tears, gold stripes, geometric patterns that caught the red light. And the outfits— My breath caught. Well. The outfits were the main event. Some people wore tight leather skirts with fishnet stockings and tall boots. Others had on nothing but oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh, metal collars hanging around their necks. And some people were wearing only a collar and— I quickly looked away. Like a lost chick, I stayed glued to Annie’s side as we moved through the crowd. Annie, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She navigated through the room like she had done this a hundred times before and led me straight to the bar. “Two Negronis,” she told the bartender. The drinks arrived quickly. Annie handed one to me. I held the glass and cautiously looked around, curiosity and nervousness wrestling inside me. I felt like a background extra who had somehow wandered onto the set of a very strange movie. A man walked past us. He was wearing—well. Wearing those leather pants with a very… complicated structure in the crotch area. I immediately looked away. Unfortunately, my gaze landed on something else. A woman, clad head to toe in tight black latex, held a thin chain in her hand. At the other end of the chain— was a half-n@ked man wearing a dog mask, kneeling obediently. He was kneeling. I nearly dropped my drink. “Breathe,” Annie murmured next to my ear. “Everything you’re seeing here—these are their choices.” “No one’s forced. No one’s being hurt. There are rules here. Safewords. Boundaries.” “If you feel uncomfortable, you can stop anytime.” I nodded, taking a sip of my shot to hide my nerves. “Come on.” Annie shoved a tablet into my hands. “Fill this out.” “Fill out what?” “The preference form.” She gestured for me to sit down. “What you want, what you don’t want. Your limits. Your safeword.” I stared at the tablet in front of me. The screen lit up, rows of options staring back at me, almost challengingly. Role preference: Sub… I guess? Pain tolerance: Light. Can try, nothing too harsh. Bondage type: Wrists okay. Full body—not yet. I scrolled and checked boxes, my fingers trembling: Candles? No. Flogging? Light. Maybe. Can try. Blindfolds? Yes. Ropes? Wrists only. Public play? Absolutely not. Verbal humiliation? A little? I huffed and puffed my way through it, then hit submit. “Done? You just submitted it?” Annie’s eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?” I blinked, confused. “Ugh, I didn’t make it clear—this is a matching form. It finds your play partner for tonight. You can only submit once.” She flipped through my submission. “You put Sub, so your info gets sent to all the Masters. Let me see… verbal humiliation? …a little? Maybe try?” Even through her mask, I could tell she was frowning. “Your choices are too conservative. Most Masters here prefer subs with some experience—or at least someone willing to explore a little more.” “Too conservative?” I mumbled. “I even ticked that I could try flogging!” “Light.” Annie shot me a look. “And you even put a question mark.” “I—” “It’s fine.” She patted my hand. “First time, being conservative is normal. Tonight, just think of it as a tour. Next time—sh1t!” Annie suddenly squealed, making me jump and spill some of my drink. “Whoa, calm down!” I wiped my mouth. “You’re in luck, girl—K just matched with you!” Annie shook my shoulders with so much force I almost toppled off the bar stool. “Listen, you have to say yes. K is infamous in this club—subs or anyone who’s played with him can’t stop talking about him. But he’s not a regular. He comes once or twice a month, if that. Your luck right now—” She leaned close to my ear, voice low but still electric with excitement: “—your dry little garden is about to get watered again.” “You are completely ridiculous,” I rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her to shut up— “Mag?” A voice came from behind. Low. Magnetic. Like the deepest cello string being plucked slowly. Mag—that’s the abbreviation I’d thrown in on the form. Annie’s eyes went wide, mouth forming a perfect “O,” and she frantically mouthed: Turn around! Turn around! TURN AROUND! I took a deep breath. And turned. My heart missed a beat, then slammed back twice as fast. Chapter 3 Maggie's pov A man stood behind me—almost godlike. A finely crafted mask covered the upper half of his face. Black leather, edged with a thin line of silver that occasionally caught the dim light. Sharp cheekbones. A clean, defined jawline. And those lips—d@mn, they were almost unfairly sensual. Even with only half his face visible, I’d bet good money the rest of him was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The fabric of his shirt stretched just enough over solid muscle, rising and falling with his breathing, the lines beneath shifting faintly with each movement. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing a strong forearm. Black tattoo lines ran along the muscle like some intricate totem, disappearing beneath the fabric of his sleeve before I could see the full design. “Mag?” His voice was low, smooth, deliberate—like it could bend the air around us. Annie was the first to react. She suddenly shoved me forward. “That’s her! She’s Mag. Have fun, you two.” “Hey—” I tried to stop her. But Annie had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with him. Great. He stepped closer. “Hello, Mag. I’m K,” he said simply. “Would you like to have s3x with me tonight?” Direct. But I noticed something—his eyes never left mine. Steady. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t asking at all… just waiting for me to catch up. Not a question. A confirmation. My knees went weak. “I…” I hesitated. “Think carefully.” He lifted my chin with one finger. Just a touch—but it sent a sharp jolt down my spine. “Once we start,” he said softly, “we don’t stop halfway.” His presence surrounded me. Was I drunk? Because out of nowhere, a strange kind of courage surged through me. It’s just s3x. Okay, maybe a little… different. But it can’t possibly be worse than Lucas. And this man supposedly has quite the reputation, doesn’t he? “Okay,” I finally heard myself say. “Good.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I hope you understand what that decision means.” He turned and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. *** No. No. No. The moment I stepped into the dimly lit room, my brain started screaming. The walls looked like something out of an execution chamber. Handcuffs hung from metal rings. Strange hooks dangled from the ceiling. One entire wall was lined with whips, paddles, and things I couldn’t even name. The whole place glowed in dark red light. And the man beside me was casually testing them. He picked up different tools from the wall, weighing them in his hand as if choosing kitchen utensils. “Uh… I don’t really know much about this stuff,” I said, forcing myself to look at him. “You matched with me after reading my form, right?” “Mm.” He took down a leather paddle. “I noticed you wrote ‘willing to try’ under impact.” He walked back toward me. Before I could react— Smack. The paddle landed on my backside. “Is this level acceptable?” he asked calmly. “Ah!” I yelped, completely unprepared. “You jerk! I said try—you could’ve at least given me a warning!” The sting bloomed across my skin, hot and sharp. I sucked in a breath—half pain, half something else. A strange warmth lingered beneath it, subtle but insistent, making my toes curl. That shouldn't feel good. “Jerk?” Even behind the mask, I could practically feel his eyebrow lift. “If you were my sub,” he said slowly, his voice dropping lower, “I would punish you severely for that disrespect.” “But I’m not,” I shot back stubbornly. “Tonight, you are.” He stepped closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to punish your insolence,” he murmured, each word brimming with command. “Spre@d your legs. Get on the bed. Arch your aśś.” Before I could even react, my body betrayed me. My legs moved on their own. I watched myself crawl onto the bed like I was floating above my own body. My brain was still screaming what are you doing, but my hips were already lowering into position. As I lay face down on the bed, a delayed rush of shame hit me. Why am I so obedient? Do I actually like this… being controlled? “Not bad cooperation. Lower your h1ps… arch higher,” his voice carried a hint of approval. “Pull your pant1es down to your knees.” I froze, hesitating for a moment. “Want to be punished some more?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. I swallowed hard. Slowly, I slid my panties down, all while feeling his deep, piercing eyes tracing every curve of my body. A shiver ran through my th1ghs, a heat I hadn’t felt in years spreading low. “Good girl,” he murmured, and my chest tightened, nipples hard beneath my skirt. His approving tone sent tremors through me. “Before we officially start, let me remind you of tonight’s rules,” he continued. “Rule one: Call me Sir. Rule two: I know you’re a beginner, so I won’t push too far—but if you ever feel uncomfortable, use your safe word.” “Okay.” A sharp smack landed on my aśś, making me flinch. “Yes, Sir.” “Marginally passable,” he grunted. “Say your safe word again.” “Okay, Sir… Yellow Tulip.” “Good. Now let’s begin. Naughty kittens will pay for insolence.” No sooner had he finished than a sharp slap landed on my aśs. I let out a short scream. The sting was fiery, slightly painful—but also electric, spreading warmth and an almost ticklish pleasure. As his hand struck again and again, the sensation shifted from my aśs to the c0re of my womanhood. I should have felt only pain—but instead, my pussy grew wet, dripping. Damn… I’d never been this wet before, at least not with Lucas. With him, I needed lube. I needed to zone out. I needed to pretend I was somewhere else. Now, just a few slaps from a stranger, and my body is doing this on its own. Obviously, K noticed the change in me too and teased, “Quite talented, huh? A few spanks and you’re already dr1pping.” He paused. His fingers brushed against my inner th1gh. When he pulled back, they glistened. “You really are a naughty little kitten.” He held his fingers up in front of me, showing the slick strands between them. “Clean it yourself.” This is going too far. That thought flashed through my mind. Maybe I should stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. Trembling, I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking them obediently, coaxing every drop. “Good licking,” he hummed, satisfaction vibrating through his voice. He moved his fingers in and out of my mouth with a rhythm that mimicked fking, before pulling them out and sliding two fingers smoothly into my already wet pussy. He curled his fingers inside me, thrvsting with a control and roughness I’d never experienced before. Even though I’d done it myself, it felt completely different—his fingers were thicker, stronger, and the w3t, slurping sounds quickly filled the room. “Sir… I… I’m going to cv/m.” I sucked in a shuddering breath, trembling as a wave of tingling heat surged from my lower belly. “Good girl, reporting before cv-mming deserves a reward.” He pressed hard against me again, and I screamed as molten waves of ple@sure tore through me. Just as I felt myself reach the peak, he pulled his fingers out. Then he flipped me over. “Hold your knees tight,” he commanded, voice low and rough, pulling down his zipper. “You’re only allowed to cum on my c0k.” I froze, heart hammering. Sh1t. In front of me was a massive c0k, a size I’d only ever seen in adult films. At the sight of it, Lucas’s c0k was completely erased from my mind—buried and forgotten. (Sorry, Lucas… I really have nothing else to compare it to.) Even more intense, the tip was pierced. I'd seen piercings before. On Instagram. In accounts I'd never admit to clicking through late at night. The silver ring caught the red light as he stepped closer. When the metal brushed against my inner thigh, cool and firm, I jolted. Fear. And underneath it, something I didn't want to name. Anticipation. My breath came in ragged gasps. He rubbed the piercing against my cl1t—slowly, deliberately—and I felt myself getting wetter, my body betraying me again. When his c0k brushed against my slick entrance, my heart skipped a beat. He was going to enter me like this? I hadn't agreed to unprotected s3x on the form—but he should know that. Just as hesitation gripped me, K paused. He stepped back, reached for the nightstand, and rolled on a c0ndom. I let out a shuddering breath of relief. And yet—I hated myself for the tiny flicker of longing that surged through me. Part of me was still curious. What would it feel like, that cool metal sliding against my walls without a barrier? I pushed the thought away. K's c0k pressed against me again. "Hold your knees tight. I want you to watch how I'm going to take you," he said in a low, commanding voice. I drew in a deep, trembling breath, and immediately a sharp stretch shot through me. My lungs forced to gasp as he pressed inside. Too much. “Is my d!ck too big for you, kitten?” he asked, almost casually. I hissed, sucking in a breath, feeling the pressure deep inside me. “Yes, Sir. You're splitting me open. It hurts.” He didn't pull out. Instead, he reached down, grabbed my hand, and guided it between my l3gs. His fingers pressed mine against the place where we were joined—slick, hot, impossibly full. “Liar,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Feel that? Your w3tness is dr1pping down my shaft. You're loving this.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My face burned. But my fingers—pressed there by his—could feel exactly what he was talking about. D@mn him. He was right. I was s0aking. My body wants this. His control. His dirty words. I want this. The thought made me feel like I was burning from the inside out. “Hold your knees t1ght,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. “I'm going to fk you hard now.” I wrapped my arms around my thighs and held on. He pulled out—all the way out—until nothing was left but the emptiness and the ache. I whimpered. My body throbbed, desperate to be filled again. And then he slammed back in. Without any warning, he fked me hard and fast, each thrust brutal and relentless, pounding into me like he owned my body. I heard it—the wet, rhythmic sound of him fking me. It should have embarrassed me. Two hours ago, I was still hesitating at the door. Now I was sprawled on a bed in a BDSM club, legs spread, moaning like I'd lost my mind. But I didn't have the energy to be ashamed. The shame was gone. Burned away. All that was left was heat and need and the single, desperate thought: Don't stop. Just as my stomach tightened, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge— Then every strike after that seemed deliberately cruel. He avoided the spot with precision, each thrvst stopping just before I could reach the edge. Each time I felt myself climbing toward the pe@k, he pulled back, leaving me gasping, trembling. "Sir… please," I panted, voice ragged and desperate. "Please what?" “Cv-m… please let me cv-m, Sir.” “Good girl. I'll give you what you want,” he murmured. Then he thrvst again—and finally, finally, hit that spot deep inside that made my stomach clench. I screamed. Molten waves of pleasure tore through me. My body convulsed, heat radiating from deep within, every nerve ending on fire. “I… I'm going to—” I sobbed, my thighs trembling. “Cv-m for me, Mag.” His voice was low, commanding. I rode the peak with nothing but surrender, m0ans mixing with ragged gasps. I was still trembling in the aftershock when I felt him pull out. I thought the night was over. Then I heard it—the sound of him tearing open another c0ndom. “Wait… what—” I stammered. He pinned my hands above my head and thrvst back insi-de me. “The night's just beginning, Mag.”