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persephone descending | chapter 4: the tide of wrath

Summary: On a night out at the Styx nightclub, you become lost in the labyrinthine basement where Ryan finds you and immediately claims you for his own. Only later do you find out who he is: a professional hockey player who owns the club and oversees the operations of its illicit underground. The more you return there with him, the less you want to leave. But when an unforeseen opportunity rears its head– one you’ve only dreamed of– you have to decide how much your role as Ryan’s underground queen means to you.

Chapter 4/7 | 6189 words | nsfw | ryan reaves / reader | content warnings: exhibitionism, bondage, d/s, etc.

Previous chapters: 1 | 2 | 3

This was a prompt– an anon sent me this post and I went spiraling

It also builds from this dream I had

Thanks to @christinealexandra, @miss-emrys, and @therealsassyclh for guidance 💙

The guest is supposed to be Lias Andersson, which is for my own selfish reasons, but I left it vague. Please install the Swedish hockey of your choice when you reach that scene 😂

If I did not describe the piece of furniture well enough, here's a visual (nsfw warning for sex furniture-- no people are in this image)

please observe this picture (second in the set) to understand why we're riding thighs

—–

You’re already in your seat at Madison Square Garden when your phone rings, and even answering it seems like a Sisyphean task after the day you’ve had. Emitting a monstrous sigh, you do so anyway. “Hello?”

“It’s Cyane. I’m on my way, just so you know. Are you there already?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d it go today?”

Where do you even begin? You somehow managed to finish the training program the night before, finally shutting your laptop down at one in the morning, then woke up at six to look polished and professional for the presentation. You barely had time to eat half of your lunch at your desk, where you found a lovely little note: I hope you choke. Then you went upstairs for your interview, which lasted an hour and a half. After that, you went to your office, locked the doors, shut the lights off, and took a nap. Things had gone well, but it had been a rollercoaster of a day.

“I’m so goddamn exhausted, Cy.”

She laughs. “Tell me when I get there. See you in a bit.”

Hanging up, you relax into your seat and wait for the team to come out for warmups. This place is becoming a sanctuary for you now, and you close your eyes for a moment, listen to the familiar hum of the zamboni, the buzz of the early birds settling in to their seats—

A tap on your shoulder startles you, and you look up to see an arena staff member. “I was asked to give this to you,” she says, and hands you a small white box about the size of your hand. A little square envelope is tucked under the ribbon. You thank her, then open the envelope.

Go upstairs and slide this in. We’re going to have some fun during pregame. –Ryan

You blush, imagining what must be inside, and head to the restroom. Once you’re safely in a stall, you open the box; it’s a sleek little black vibrator. There’s another note inside. Turn it on and put it in. I’ve got the remote hidden in my glove.

“Ryan,” you whisper under your breath, smiling, shaking your head. You follow his instructions, and when you return to your seat, Cyane is there waiting for you.

“So?”

Your face breaks into a smile. “I don’t even know where to begin, but I’m going to apologize in advance.” You hand her the pair of notes, and she peers over her glasses at you.

“Are you telling me, that right this very second, in the middle of Madison Square Garden—”

“Shhh! But… yes.”

She erupts in laughter. “God. You have snagged yourself quite the adventure. Not going to lie, I’m a teensy bit jealous.”

“I’m glad one of my friends is happy for me.”

“Oh, fuck Demi anyway. I went over to hers yesterday to wash a load of laundry—you know my washer is still broken? It’s been two weeks—anyway, I wish I’d have just gone to the laundromat. She spent probably a half an hour ranting about it. She’s convinced he’s bad news. She says we have to do something to save you. So dramatic.”

You study your hands. “He makes delicious pancakes, Cy. He sings in the kitchen sometimes when he does. He always makes me one heart-shaped one. And he’s bad at it so it never looks quite right, but I love it all the same.”

She watches you. “This sounds like a regular occurrence.”

“I’ve stayed overnight at his place three times now.”

“I didn’t know—I didn’t know this was happening? So are you—is this officially a relationship, or—”

“I don’t know, but I want it to be,” you tell her, and it’s the first time you’ve said it out loud. “I really do.”

“What a thing to admit with a vibrator inside you at a hockey game,” she says after a beat, and you can’t help but laugh.

“God, I know, but I have to say it to someone.”

“Why not him?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I suppose—” The lights in the rink come up, and the team takes the ice. You brace yourself for what’s coming. “I suppose I feel like he has to be first, and I’m not sure why.”

Ryan skates by, throws a wink in your direction, and your knuckles go white as your fingers grip the armrests. Cyane giggles. “Oh, Christ, I have to say it’s a little bit awkward knowing what’s going on.”

You bite your lip, realizing that when Ryan takes a lap, the remote probably can’t reach you from the other side of the rink. You’ll be stuck until he’s near you again. “Mm-hmm, but probably better that I’m just—that I’m just straightforward, instead of leaving you to make awkward guesses?”

“I’m going to get some nachos,” she says. “I hope the line is really long.”

You laugh as she ascends the stairs, and focus your attention on warmups. You remember the first night here, back when you didn’t know the name on your back was the name of the man who’d fucked you in that dark passage, back when Cyane was trying to settle on the hottest player so she could buy his jersey. After it was clear that she’d be attending games with you on the regular, she did make a selection: Jacob Trouba. It was a decent choice, but your vibrator is still going off and Mika Zibanejad skates past and you think she could have chosen better.

Barclay Goodrow stops at the glass near you, bumping against the boards. You wonder if any of Ryan’s teammates know about his ventures outside brewing and hockey. That’s a new thought, says your brain, and briefly you picture Mika in front of you and Barclay beneath and Ryan behind you, in your ass, telling them what they can do to you—

Ryan lines up against the glass, elbowing Barclay, and they laugh at whatever his remark was. Your vibrator shuts off, and you’re slightly disappointed.

But he continues to tease you, on and off, on and off, and then he skates past and just doesn’t press the button—it just pulses within you, and you’re dying to tear this thing from your body and have Ryan inside you instead. It pales in comparison to him—too small, too static, and you wonder if he picked this one out specifically because he knew it would be such a tease.

Probably.

Cyane comes back, and she’s carrying food for you, too, correctly figuring that you barely got a chance to eat. You nibble at your chicken fingers, trying your hardest not to react every time the vibrator turns on. When the horn sounds, signaling the end of warmups, Ryan passes by and raises an eyebrow—you shake your head slightly, so he doesn’t press the button to turn it on again, and you’re spared. Exhaling, now you can focus on your conversation and your food.

In telling Cyane about the day, you talk so much that you barely get to eat, and by the time they take the ice again, you have no time to run up to the restroom and remove the vibrator—so it stays in.

Ryan— who is on the bench and still within range—presses the button.

Your thighs clench. He locks eyes with you while starting lineups are introduced, smirking slowly as he realizes that his gamble paid off and you haven’t taken it out, and you realize that you’re in for it for the whole night.

Cyane notices, too, and can’t stifle a laugh. “Still?”

You nod, lips pressing together. “I’m going to die by the end.”

“What if he drops his gloves for a fight and that remote goes flying across the ice?”

This, you had to admit, was a distinct possibility, given Ryan’s proclivity for on-ice fisticuffs. However, the whole game passes without incident, except for when you make a mad dash to the stairs in the second period because Ryan’s in the box and can’t turn it off and there’s nothing for it, you’re going to come, so you hide in the back stall and let the orgasm run its course as quietly as you can, nails digging into the palms of your hands, breath arrested.

And, of course, there’s no taking it out. Ryan had texted you between periods and told you so. Not until the final whistle, he said.

By the end of the game, you’re already a mess, and you have no idea how you’re going to manage anything at Styx tonight. You’ll need a respite, at least, after hours of stimulation.

“You fuck,” is how you greet Ryan, who responds by laughing and slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“We’re just getting started,” he says, and you were afraid of that.

In the car, you ditch your jersey to reveal a black bandeau, slip on a black vinyl mini over your leggings, then remove the leggings, too. You’ve gotten good at this, the change in outfits between Ryan’s two worlds, and he reaches over to gently pinch one of your nipples. “I can’t wait to get you down there tonight.”

“Post-game meal first?”

“You need a break, I know. Hey—how did the big presentation go today? And the interview?”

“The presentation was great,” you tell him. “My boss, my boss’ boss, and several representatives from our client were there, and after I ran through everything, their highest-ranking representative said that it was the best product we’ve ever done for them. Which was a great precursor to my interview, which was with my boss’ boss. She was in a great mood because they had been so pleased, and I think I did well in the interview. She seemed really positive about it at the end.”

He squeezes your thigh affectionately, grinning. “That’s my girl. I knew you could do it.”

“You know what’s funny?” you blurt out, before planning it. “I usually get terribly nervous during presentations. I have zero charisma. I fuck up. This time, I stood in my office before going to the conference room, thinking self, you feel comfortable walking naked through hallways and fucking in front of people. You helped host a dinner party with no clothes on for four strangers last week. You can do anything. And I did.”

Ryan leans over and steals a kiss. “I’m so proud of you. Every fucking day.”

He pulls up to Styx and leaves his car with the valet. You take the now-familiar route downstairs and head straight to his sanctuary, where you choose the wine—white for you, red for me, Ryan requests, and you wonder what else he’s up to.

There’s a knock at the door, and Ryan answers it. It’s Char. “Good evening again, sir,” she says. “I was going to tell you this when you arrived, but there was a couple behind you and I didn’t want to say things in mixed company.” She glances at you. “I—would you prefer to talk in private?”

“You can say anything in front of her,” he says to Char while you’re uncorking a chianti.

“That woman was back earlier tonight,” Char tells him. “Tried to push past security upstairs, but didn’t get in. She left this for you.” She hands him an envelope.

Disdain on his face, he takes it. “Who the fuck is she, anyway? Never seen or heard of this woman in my life and suddenly she’s the biggest pain in the ass of my life. Thanks, Char.”

She inclines her head and is gone.

“What was that all about?” You hand him his wine and settle down with your own glass while he tears the envelope open and reads its contents.

“Some woman is trying to threaten me. She wants to buy Styx, and says that if I don’t sell it to her, she’ll report the ‘illegal’ activities that happen down here. I’m not selling, and I’m also not doing anything illegal that I know of. What bothers me, though, is that I don’t know who this Aphra woman is or why she’s coming for my ass.”

You nearly spit out your wine. “Aphra?”

“Yeah. Does that mean something to you?”

You feel your face reddening in anger as you get to your feet. “Yes! Yes it fucking does! I used to be best friends with a co-worker called Aphra, who then went behind my back and fucked the guy I was dating at the time. She apparently just inherited a bunch of money, and now she’s using it to come here and try to buy your club? Have you met this woman face-to-face? A little taller than me, long blonde hair, our age…”

“Yeah. Yeah, that describes her.”

Suddenly, you’re seething. “That fucking cunt. This is really what she’s going to waste her inheritance on? She’s coming for your ass because of me. How does she even know about us?” You sink down onto the couch. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey. No. What are you apologizing for?”

“You wouldn’t be in this mess if not for me.”

He puts two hands on your bare shoulders and makes you look at him. “Don’t you ever. This is not your fault.”

“She’s after me, not you. I’m just—I’m so confused why—”

His hands don’t move. “I care about you way too much to let you sit here and blame yourself for some vindictive bitch’s jacked-up vendetta. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“More importantly than my club—has she threatened you in any way?”

I’m a protector, he’d said once, and you feel it in this moment.

“It was probably her with the note today,” you realize. “Is that letter handwritten or typed?”

“What note?” He hands the letter over, which is indeed handwritten, and you pull up the photo of the note on your phone.

“Oh, would you look at that. Same handwriting.”

Ryan leans over to take a look. “’I hope you choke.’ That’s fucking lovely. Where’d she put that?”

“My desk. Which is confusing, since she doesn’t work with me anymore. She quit.”

He pulls you close to him, kisses you on the cheek. “You let me know if anything else happens, okay?”

You nod, and it’s then that the food arrives. Dion smiles at you as he sets your tray down, and each time you see him, you can’t help but think of the first time you met, when he put his head between your legs. “Enjoy,” he says.

You lift the lid on yours: perch, potatoes, and asparagus tips. Your favorite. “You’re something,” you say to Ryan, and he smiles, pleased.

After the meal, the mood shifts. You know Ryan has plans for you, and after all the stress and pressure of the day, you’re ready to give up control and let him do what he wants with you. He’s got you stretched out on your back, lying on his lap, and he’s pulled your top down so he can play with your breasts.

“I keep changing my mind,” he says, “about what I want to do with you.”

“We have a full night. Why do you have to choose?”

“You did say you can do anything.”

“Maybe you need to test that.”

He rolls a nipple between his fingers. “After all I put you through already?”

“You know how much I love when you test my limits.”

“Mmm.” He sets a heavy hand on your chest. “I didn’t play much tonight. I got a lot of energy to burn up.” Decision made, he pushes you up. “Leave your clothes.”

You strip for him, leaving your bandeau and skirt on the floor. You didn’t bother wearing panties tonight; by this time, you’ve figured out what he likes.

He stands, then, and stares you down as he unbuttons his dress shirt and deposits it on the floor with your things. In his eyes is a promise of what’s to come, and your body is already singing with anticipation. You take in the sight of him. There’s something so hot about him shirtless, his arms and chest covered in tattoos, with his dress pants still on; there’s something about the way he loops a strap around your wrists and tightens it, leading you out into the hallway like property.

The way is familiar enough now that you could lead, and when you reach the door and the three shadow-heads on the wall, Ceri greets you both. “Sir. Madam.” You’ve never heard anyone else addressed with that title down here, and it occurs to you that Ryan has instructed his staff to treat you with the same level of respect they afford to him.

As you emerge into the heart of the underground, though, you have no time to process what that means. Ryan tugs firmly on the strap, making you catch up as he strides over to that corner across from the bar, where all different kinds of furniture await. You’ve been over here a couple of times, on the spanking bench and—last time-- in a chair with eight-point restraints and a V-shaped seat, where he’d anchored your ankles and thighs to leave your legs wide open and secured your hands behind your back. Finger me, he’d scrawled on your stomach, an echo of the woman on the St. Andrew’s Cross that first night, and you’d spent over an hour there, helplessly watching strangers invade your body, while Ryan coolly sipped a drink at the bar, observing from afar. Afterwards, he’d put you in the swing and fucked you to completion, your fifth? sixth? orgasm of the night.

Tonight, he brings you directly to a bench that has had you curious for a while now. You’ve seen others on it, but you could have deduced how it worked even if you hadn’t. The legs are adjustable, and it’s currently waist-height to Ryan—the exact height he’ll need to fuck you, you know. The center torso rest, padded and wrapped in leather, is cold on your bare breasts and stomach as you climb on. Your knees and shins rest on two leg pads, so you’re at a little less than a ninety-degree angle, almost like you’re kneeling in midair, making you spread your legs and present every opening to him. Your arms go on two pads on either side of your head, which rests on the type of U-shaped headrest you find on a massage table. Ryan straps you down: two straps on each leg, two across your back, two on each arm. The only part of your body you can move is your head; everything else is completely immobile, and you love how open and vulnerable you feel.

You expect him to get in you, but instead of his dick, you feel his tongue. He circles your clit with the very tip, and takes his time. This is going to be a slow build, you think. And for a while, it is. He plies you gently with his tongue, teasing out your clit. Then his tongue vanishes—and, for a moment, so does he. He goes to the bar, and the bartender hands him a case.

Yes, you think, when he returns and opens it in front of you.

Though you’ve been begging him for more—more intense, more pain, more restraint—he’s been adamant about easing you into all of this. He’s spanked you before, but this case is full of all the things you’ve been wanting.

He takes his time and then selects a flogger with a short handle and several light-looking falls. You can’t see him when he goes behind you, but you can feel him drag the long leather threads down your back, caressing you tenderly with an implement meant to cause pain; then he pulls away and snaps it against your back.

You moan, your forehead relaxing into the headrest, settling in. He waits a moment and does it again, and again you give voice to how much you love the sting. Once it’s clear to Ryan that you can handle it, and that you love it, he stops taking it easy. With each hit the flogger lands, you grow wetter and wetter until you know that your pussy is glistening in the low light, and you know Ryan well enough to know that his mouth will be watering when he notices.

When he does, though, he comes around to the front of the bench and tilts your chin up with a finger. “Does it hurt?”

You lick your lips. “Yes. In the best way.”

“And the pain makes you so fucking wet. I know what you want. You want my mouth back on your pussy. But how am I supposed to taste you and hurt you at the same time, hmm?”

You don’t have an answer for that.

He does. He raises an index finger in the air and beckons someone to join you. You can see him approaching out of the corner of your eye: longish dark blond hair combed back, black sportcoat, black button-down shirt, black dress slacks. He looks good, and when he arrives to greet Ryan, you hear the faint trace of an accent, though you can’t place it. Swedish, maybe?

“Enemies on the ice, allies underground?” says the man, and you realize he’s another hockey player—someone from the opposing team.

Ryan claps him on the shoulder. “This game was good timing.”

“So, this is her, then.” He runs a hand along your body, down your still-stinging back, over your ass, and if it’s possible, you get wetter. He stands behind you, pushing your inner thighs even further apart, and you feel his breath on your pussy lips. “Juicy, this one.” He lets you go. “What do you want me to do with her?”

Ryan hands him the flogger. “Keep her in pain.”

His eyes light up. “Am I allowed to use anything else you’ve got in that case of yours?”

Ryan’s eyes meet yours, which are practically begging him, and he lets out a short laugh. “Yes. But don’t tear her up too badly. I have a lot of plans for her tonight.” He disappears behind you, and you feel warm hands on your thighs as Ryan slowly runs his tongue up and down your slit, humming into you.

The blond whose name you still don’t know circles you, thinking, deciding. “Pity,” he says to you, raising your chin with the handle of the flogger, “that you’re face-down. I’d clamp your nipples and slap them with this until you cried.”

You hope Ryan can feel how wet the idea of this makes you.

“I bet you look pretty when you cry,” he goes on. “Should we try to make you?”

Ryan’s thumb moves back and forth on your thigh, a wordless reassurance, and you know without a doubt you’re still safe.

You don’t know if you’d ever be a brat to Ryan; so far, you’ve enjoyed being the obedient submissive. But as you stare up into this man’s cold blue eyes, you feel like pushing every single button.

“You can try,” you say.

You feel Ryan smile against you.

The blond presses his lips into a straight line, and his eyes narrow. He pulls you up by the hair and delivers a small, hard slap to your cheek. “He may let you get away with that. I won’t.” He licks the red skin and slaps you again; it stings worse this time, and you let out a satisfied mmm, meeting his eyes, challenging him.

Ryan is devouring you, his face buried in your pussy, and you wonder what kind of mess you’ve made of him at this point.

Meanwhile, his friend drops the flogger and pulls a riding crop from Ryan’s case. He runs it down your spine and brings it down hard on your ass. Your body twitches, but it can’t move; you’re restrained too firmly. He knows this, knows that he can hit you as much as he wants, and since you can’t thrash about, Ryan’s enjoyment won’t be ruined. He turns one side of your ass red, then the other; then he moves to your legs. He’s dangerously precise with the riding crop, able to manipulate your body in every way he wants to cause you just enough pain.

“Ryan,” you scream out, “fuck, yes— oh, God, oh, oh—” You’re close to coming, so close, and his friend drops the riding crop, forces his hands between your body and the leather bench, pinches your nipples hard—

“You’ll come for him,” he says.

And then Ryan’s gone, and you’re squirming, pleading, “Ryan… no… no…” If you weren’t strapped down, you swear to God you would find some way to overpower him, some way to make him go back and finish. Your clit throbs with need. “Ryan. Please.”

He comes around front and wipes his face with the back of his hand. “I’ll take it from here.”

His friend removes his hands. “She’s fun. Thanks for sharing.”

Ryan begins to undo your straps, and you’re ready to throttle him for leaving you so fucking close, but you keep your temper—obey, you repeat to yourself in the static of need and want, obey him. You’re trembling, and he helps you off of the bench. He holds you steady at your waist. “You want to come, don’t you?” It takes all your strength to not be sarcastic. “Yes.”

“Your turn to do some work, then; but I think you’ve wanted this for a while.” He takes your wrist and hauls you across the room, past the St. Andrew’s crosses, to the wall lined with beds. Ryan chooses one that’s flanked by beds that are in use, knowing you love being watched, knowing you’ll love the proximity to others. Your eyes drift to the left, where one woman is on her back, spread-eagle, getting eaten out by another woman who is being fucked in the ass. “Strip me,” he commands, and this is a command you’ll eagerly obey; you divest him of his belt, his pants, his boxers, and watch him climb onto the bed. He sits in the middle, legs spread, back resting against the wall, and simply raises an eyebrow.

“You want me to ride you?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He smirks and pats his thigh. “You said once that you wanted to do more than touch.”

He flexes his thigh as you realize what he’s offering, and there are muscles there that you didn’t even know existed. You’re straddling his thigh in seconds, spreading your knees far enough apart so your pussy lips open wide and your clit meets his leg.

Setting his hands on your waist to hold you up, he lets out a little moan of satisfaction when he feels your wet skin on his. “Dirty girl,” he growls. “Make a fucking mess of me.” He reaches up and pinches your nipples hard, as if to punctuate his sentence, and you cry out.

You rest your hands on your upper thighs and dip your hips, wanting as much contact as possible, and a sigh leaves your throat: “fuck,” you say, the last sound clipped as he flexes again beneath you and your already-sensitive clit brushes over a landscape of texture and it turns to a moan.

His hands drift from your waist to your hips, and they’re strong enough to suggest movement, but he’s going to make you do the work. You fall forward, grip his shoulders for leverage, spread your legs even further, and as he keeps his thigh rigid, you’re in heaven.

He licks his lips, smirking at you, and reaches forward to play with your nipples. “God, look at you. This wet for me, this close to coming, and you don’t even need my dick to do it. You’re such a fucking slut for me. You have been since that very first night.” He pinches your nipples and a scream tears through the air. “You’re going to come for me and you’re going to be louder than everyone around us, and I know just how to make you do it.”

And then that flogger cuts into your back.

You hadn’t noticed it somehow, but he had it with him, and he’s reaching around with one hand to whip you with it. “God,” you moan, “yes—”

With each impact, you inch closer to orgasm. He won’t shut up now, and you feel like sitting on his face after this just to wipe the smirk off of it. But God, you want to prolong this, the sharp bite of the falls on your skin, his dirty talk in your ear, the cries of the people on the beds next to you as they near their own climaxes, the rough terrain of Ryan’s thigh stimulating your swollen clit, that familiar rush pooling between your legs, spreading out through your center, radiating down to your feet, your toes, “yes, oh God, Ryan, Ryan, Ryan,” and your fingernails leave half-moon imprints in his shoulders as you come.

He gives you a moment to catch your breath, to watch the face of the woman on the bed as she comes too, fingers on her own nipple for extra stimulation, and you wish Ryan’s friend would come back.

“You made a hell of a mess,” he says. “Better clean it up.” Pointedly, he licks his lips.

Drawing a shaky breath, you back up, bend down, and slowly lick him from knee to pelvis. He runs his fingers through your hair and then grabs a handful, guiding your head to lick him just where he wants you to. “Missed a spot,” he says, and pulls your face to his inner thigh, where his dick brushes your cheek and you want nothing more than to take it down your throat.

Once you’ve licked him thoroughly clean, and your mouth is full of the taste of your cum, he throws you on your back. You barely have time to react before his face is between your legs, his arms looped around your thighs to keep you from thrashing as he goes after your too-sensitive clit, and you’re screaming loudly enough for the whole club to hear, “please—too intense, too—”

But you haven’t used your safeword. You’re also drawing an audience: the threesome in the bed next to you. The woman on her back is close enough, you think, to touch you, and her arm drifts; Ryan evidently has the same thought. “Touch her,” he says to the woman, who reaches over just enough to softly flick your nipple under her index finger.

The woman in the middle of that threesome—the one who’d been going down on the redhead who’s currently touching you, the one who’s presently being fucked in the ass—is evidently the one in charge. “Eva,” she says, releasing her, “ask him how you can be of service to them.”

Eva kneels at your bedside, bowing her head to Ryan. “Can I be of use?” she asks in a small voice.

It only takes Ryan a moment to decide. “Yes. You kneel there. You keep playing with her. Use your fingers or your mouth, or both.”

She puts a warm mouth on one breast and cold fingers on the other, and the temperature mixed with the overwhelming sensation is too much to handle; but between the weight of her body on yours and Ryan’s absolute strength, you’re pinned, held, you can’t move. There’s nothing for you to do but give in, and eventually, miraculously, your body seems to absorb the oversensitivity and translate it to pleasure again. Can you come again? Maybe. Maybe.

Ryan, you think, will refuse to stop until you do, and the novelty of having this stranger play you like a violin is helping you near a second climax. What’s the etiquette here? Do you call both of their names?

You shouldn’t ask her, you realize.

You look up and notice that the other two have switched sides of the bed; she’s bent over it now, so she can watch Eva—and you and Ryan—closely. The male in the trio rocks slowly back and forth in her ass, keeping himself hard, and she’s got a hand up to instruct him.

“Don’t say a word to her,” says the domme. “She’s a tool for your man right now. You don’t scream a sex toy’s name, do you?”

Eva moans, clearly into being talked about in such ways, and you relate. The moan reverberates through you, and Ryan’s doing just what you love most, and you’re screaming, unable to even form the two syllables of Ryan’s name, clawing at the bedsheets, an arm involuntarily wrapping around Eva’s back just to keep you from rocketing forward and disrupting her from her task as you orgasm for a second time.

You’re gasping for air, and Ryan’s pulling Eva onto the bed, making her lie on her back next to you. “Cover your pussy,” he says to Eva. “This ain’t for you.”

You barely understand what’s happening as Ryan straddles her; but then he’s got his dick in his palm, stroking it, pointing it at her but looking at you, and the corner of his mouth lifts briefly before his jaw drops open and you see the face you’ve seen many times now. He comes in hot streams all over Eva’s breasts and torso, then turns to you. “Clean her up.”

Fuck me, you think, barely able to process all that’s happening, and you meet the domme’s eyes as you lick Ryan’s cum from her submissive’s stomach, suck it from her breasts, leaving her wet with your saliva.

“Thanks for the toy,” Ryan says to the domme, who merely offers a smile.

Ryan extends a hand to you to help you off the bed, gives you his arm to lean on, and leads you from the room.

-----

Later, after you’ve showered and had a small snack, you’re wrapped up in Ryan’s arms in his bed.

“Did you like it?” he asks, his usual question after something new.

“Everything about it. Although your dick hasn't been in me, and I don't like that."

"We've still got time. We brought in different people,” he says. “You liked that.”

“God, yes. It’s always been a fantasy to just—I don’t know, to be a plaything for my man’s friends. I kept having this vision of hosting a dinner party where they’re all in suits and my whole job is to serve them while wearing nothing—and my guy is encouraging them to touch me, which evolves into doing whatever they want with me.”

You can see the wheels turning. “A fantasy that you’d like to play out in real life with me?”

You swear your heart stops. “I—yes.”

“My friends here are mostly teammates.”

“I’ve seen your teammates. I wouldn’t mind.”

He’s got that look in his eye again, and if he pulls this off, you might just—

Your phone buzzes, and buzzes, and buzzes, and buzzes again. “Jesus,” you sigh, reaching for it. You intend to just silence it, but instead you see the preview of the text and your eyes bug out of your head. “Oh my God,” you say. “I know how she found out. Aphra.”

“How?”

“Cyane—my best friend—just texted me. I have this other friend Demi who thinks I shouldn’t be with you. Long story, she had a really asshole ex—abusive—and she thinks that, because of the circumstances of our first meeting, you’ve got terrible intentions.” Ryan looks genuinely hurt by this, and you place a hand on his chest. “And I know you’re just a big teddy bear with a leather fetish, so don’t worry. I know she’s projecting.”

This earns a smile. “So what does Demi have to do with it?”

“Apparently Demi told Aphra about us and heavily hinted that it would ruin my life if this club was destroyed and you were dragged through criminal proceedings. She’s trying to “save” me in a very fucked up way, and went to Aphra because she knows Aphra has money and wants to hurt me in any way she possibly can.”

Ryan sighs deeply. “With friends like that…”

“Who needs enemies?” you finish. “I’m so sorry.”

“I told you. It’s not your fault.” He pulls you close, kisses you, cups your face gently in his hands. “And we’re in this shit together, okay? You and me. If it came down to it, I’d easily give this place up to keep you.”

You look up at him with wide eyes. You were not expecting that. “I’m—I don’t know what to say to that,” you say, even as your brain is screaming I love you. “That might be the sweetest thing someone’s said to me. Honestly. I know that this place is a dream made real for you. A labor of love.”

He gathers you up in his arms and kisses your forehead. “Let's go back out. I owe you one last orgasm. I know that pussy needs me."

As you allow him to help you up, you swear to fight just as hard as he fights on the ice.

These bitches are not going to win.