Chapter 7: Chapter 7
He didn’t take her to the bed. He backed her against the door, the wood cold and solid through the flannel shirt. The click of his belt, the rough drag of his zip, were the only sounds apart from their breathing. He lifted her, his hands under her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. He drove into her in one hard, certain stroke.
There was no preamble, no gentle re-entry. This was different from the group’s frantic energy, different even from the chemical-fueled pounding. This was focused, personal, a reclamation. He pinned her there, holding her entire weight, and set a deep, grinding rhythm. The door shuddered softly behind her with each thrust.
She clung to him, her face buried in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and yesterday’s cologne. Every muscle in his shoulders and back was corded tight with the effort of holding her up, of moving inside her. She could feel the scratch of his t-shirt against her cheek, the powerful flex of his abdomen against her. It was brutally intimate, a private transaction in the wreckage of a public night.
He fucked her with a steady, insistent pressure that seemed designed to reach something the others hadn’t—a deeper layer of exhaustion, a more fundamental surrender. She made small, punched-out sounds with each impact, her fingers tangled in his hair. The soreness was there, a bright substrate of pain, but the fullness, the sheer claiming weight of him, overrode it. This wasn’t about her performance, or his showmanship for the lads. This was about possession, plain and simple.
He came like that, holding her aloft, his body going rigid as he pressed her harder into the door, a low, guttural groan vibrating through his chest and into hers. She felt the hot pulse deep inside, a final stamp on the evening’s chaos.
For a long minute, he didn’t move, just kept her there, his forehead against the door next to her head, his breathing ragged. Then, slowly, he loosened his grip, letting her slide down until her feet found the floor. Her legs nearly buckled. He held her steady, his hands on her hips.
Without a word, he led her to the demolished bed. They didn’t wash. They simply crawled onto the less-damp side, a tangled mess of limbs and drying sweat. He pulled the ripped silk sheet over them. Within seconds, the crash from the chemicals and the sex and the sheer visceral toll of the night claimed them. His breathing evened into the deep, regular pattern of sleep almost instantly.
Jane lay awake a little longer, staring at the water stain on the ceiling where a candle had splattered. Her body hummed with a spent, hollow ache. The text from Mark felt like a phantom limb, an itch in a missing part of her consciousness. She pushed it away, focusing on the solid warmth of Liam beside her, the smell of sex, the absolute physical reality of her own wrecked body. This was what she’d wanted. This was the point. She fell asleep chasing that thought.
Grey winter light seeped around the blackout curtains. Jane woke to the familiar, insistent press of an erection against her thigh. Liam was already awake, propped on an elbow, watching her. The reckless energy from the night before was gone from his face, replaced by a quieter, more patient hunger. He looked older in the flat light, the lines around his eyes more pronounced.
She smiled sleepily and slid down the bed without a word. The smell was musky, intimate. She took him into her mouth, the morning taste of him stark and clean. She worked him slowly, her hand cupping and rolling his balls, her tongue focusing on the sensitive spot just under the head. His breath hitched. One of his hands came to rest gently on the back of her head, not pushing, just present.
After a few minutes, he groaned. “Christ, Jane.”
She pulled off with a soft pop, resting her cheek on his hip. “I need your help with something,” she said, her voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah?” His hand stroked her hair.
“Tonight. I’m going out. Not with you lot. On my own.”
His fingers stilled for a second, then resumed their slow motion. “Right.”
“I need a new uniform. Something… devastating.” She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. “I need to look like a fucking luxury item that’s been left out in the rain. I need to look expensive, but like I’m begging to be ruined. I want men to see me and not be able to think of anything else for the rest of their fucking lives.”
A slow smile spread across his face. He understood the language. “You want the full huntress gear.”
“Exactly. And you have good taste. I saw how you looked at me last night, before it all… progressed. You know what works.” She lowered her head and took him back into her mouth, sucking deeply, letting the vibration of her hum answer for her. Then she released him again. “I want you to come with me. Help me choose. And your reward…” She let her hand glide along his length. “Is that you get to christen it. You get to fuck me in it before I go out. Be the first.”
He was fully hard now, his eyes dark. “And after you go out?”
“After I go out,” she said, leaning down to swirl her tongue around the tip, “I belong to the night. And whoever it wants to give me to.”
He watched her for a long moment, then gently guided her head back down. “Finish what you started. Then we’ll go shopping.”
The boutique was a stark, minimalist cube of glass and pale wood in the older part of town, a world away from the faded pub carpets and flocked wallpaper of the night before. Racks of silent, expensive fabric stood like sentinels. A lone, impeccably dressed assistant with a severe blonde bob regarded them with barely-concealed disdain as they entered. Jane, in Liam’s flannel shirt over yesterday’s stained skirt and her bedraggled heels, looked like a cat that had dragged something in.
Liam, however, walked in like he owned the place. He ignored the assistant and went straight to a rail of sleek, dark dresses.
“Not that,” Jane murmured, running a finger over a column of black velvet. “Too… tasteful.”
He moved on, scanning. He pulled out a few things—a sequinned slip, a lace-panelled jumpsuit—but Jane shook her head at each. They were sexy, but they weren’t the statement.
Then his eyes landed on a single piece hanging apart from the others, as if it required its own security detail. He gestured with his chin. “That.”
It was a dress, if you could call it that. The base material was a heavy, liquid-looking satin in a deep, arterial red. The top was a corset, boned and structured, with a plunging neckline that would barely cover the nipples. The bottom was a micro-skirt, so short it was essentially a wide belt, attached to the corset by two thin, delicate chains at the hips. The chains were the real piece of work—fine, gold-looking links that would sway with every step, drawing the eye directly to the strip of bare skin between the corset and the skirt. At the back, the corset laced up with a silk ribbon, the skirt was nonexistent, just the same two chains connecting over the swell of the arse.
“It’s… quite avant-garde,” the assistant sniffed, appearing at their elbows. “The designer is Belgian. It’s more of an art piece.”
“It’s perfect,” Jane breathed. It was expensive luxury and raw invitation fused together. It was a dare. “I’ll try it on.”
In the changing room, under the unforgiving fluorescent lights, she faced herself. The woman looking back was a stranger. The red satin was shockingly vivid against her skin. The corset shoved her breasts up and together, creating a dramatic, overflowing cleavage. The micro-skirt covered just the essentials, the golden chains cool against her hip bones. From behind, the view was pure pornography—the laced corset, the full curve of her arse completely bare except for the two teasing chains. She looked wealthy, decadent, and utterly, gloriously filthy.
She unlocked the door and stepped out.
Liam was leaning against a rail, chatting idly with the now-flustered assistant, who was trying very hard not to look at the state of Jane’s heels. He turned. His expression didn’t change dramatically, but his eyes went still, then very slowly tracked from her feet up to her face. He let out a low, soft whistle. “Fuck me.”
The assistant cleared her throat. “The chains are, of course, adjustable for a secure fit.”
“They’re perfect,” Liam said, his eyes locked on Jane. “We’ll take it. She’s wearing it out.”
An hour later, they were back in the hotel room. Jane stood before the full-length mirror, the red dress a screaming flag against the room’s muted tones. She had washed her hair, reapplied a slash of red lipstick, and put the dress back on. It felt different now. It felt like armour and bait all at once.
Liam came up behind her, his hands sliding around to cradle her hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the chains. He looked at her reflection, his gaze hot. “You look like a million quid,” he said. “And like you’d do absolutely anything for a tenner.”
She laughed, the sound sharp and bright. “That’s the idea.”
His hands moved to the tiny zip at the side of the micro-skirt. He eased it down. “My reward,” he reminded her, his voice a rough whisper in her ear.
He didn’t take the dress off her. He pushed the fabric aside and entered her from behind, right there as she faced the mirror. He was slow this time, deliberate, watching their reflection. Jane watched too, watched his hands kneading the satin-covered flesh of her hips, watched her own face contort as he filled her. The red satin creased and strained with their movement. The golden chains swayed and jingled softly with each thrust.
It was a consecration. He marked the dress from the inside, his rhythm building until he gripped the laces of the corset for leverage, pulling her back onto him with a force that made her cry out. When he came, he bit gently at the side of her neck, a final brand.
Afterward, he helped her adjust the chains, his fingers lingering. He didn’t ask where she was going. He didn’t suggest coming with her. He understood the rules of this new game.
“Have fun out there,” he said, kissing her bare shoulder. “Hunt well.”
Jane checked her reflection one last time. The woman in the mirror was undeniable. She looked expensive, used, and hungry all at once. She picked up a small black clutch, slipping her phone and room key inside. She didn’t look at the screen.
She walked out of the room, the whisper of satin and the soft chime of gold chains the only sounds. She didn’t look back. The hotel corridor stretched before her, a runway. The hunt was on.
The hunt was on.
The icy air bit at her bare legs, a shocking counterpoint to the dress’s satin warmth. She hailed a cab, the driver’s eyes widening in the rear-view mirror as the dome light illuminated the chains, the expanse of thigh. She gave him an address she’d researched days ago, a discreet townhouse in a Georgian terrace known for its polished brass plaque and a certain kind of membership. The car slid through streets ghostly with Christmas stillness, moving from one world into another.
The building was all understated elegance: black door, frosted fanlight, a buzzer without a name. She pressed it. A camera lens above the door glinted. A moment later, a magnetic click echoed with finality.
Inside, warmth and soft lighting enveloped her. The air smelled of bergamot and beeswax polish. The reception area was a tasteful lounge: deep armchairs, abstract art, a murmur of piano jazz from hidden speakers. And everywhere, women. They were exquisite, lounging on chaise longues, perched on armrests, leaning in to laugh with men in sharp suits. Silk whispered against skin. Teeth flashed in practiced, lovely smiles. It was a gallery of curated fantasy.
Then Jane walked in.
The conversations didn’t stop so much as fray at the edges. A laugh cut short. A glance slid her way, then stuck. The piano jazz suddenly felt very loud. She saw it all in fragments: a blonde in emerald green silk, her smile freezing; a businessman, his glass halfway to his lips, his eyes tracing the chains from her hip to the red satin; a stunning redhead who looked genuinely curious, her head tilting like a bird’s.
She was a vandal in the gallery. Her dress was too loud, too specific. The golden chains were a crude mechanic’s detail amidst the organic flow of chiffon and lace. And the state of her—the mess of her hair that no amount of washing could fully tame, the smudged resilience of her makeup, the raw, fucked-out aura that clung to her like the scent of the hotel room—marked her as something entirely other. She wasn’t a fantasy waiting to be unlocked. She was a document of a fantasy already, violently, completed.
A man in a charcoal grey waistcoat, impeccable and grave, materialised at her elbow. His expression was a masterpiece of polite obstruction. “Madam, I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. Our associates are not permitted to solicit in this manner. You’ll need to leave.”
Jane turned her head slowly to look at him. She smiled, not with warmth, but with a kind of bright, terrifying clarity. “I’m not one of your associates.” Her voice cut through the jazz. “I’m a client.”
His blink was slow, disbelieving. He scanned her again, the filthy outfit, the defiant posture. “A client.”
“Yes.” She opened her clutch, pulling out a thick stack of banknotes, the crisp new hundreds stark against her fingernails. She saw his eyes track the money. It was a language he understood. “I have a proposition. For the house.”
He was listening now, his professional mask still on but his curiosity a live wire beneath it. “Perhaps we should discuss this in a private salon.”
“We can discuss it right here.” She let her voice carry, knowing every perfectly-coiffed head was tilted their way. “I’m looking to hire. Ten of your gentlemen clients. The ten nicest ones in the room right now. The ones who are polite, who know how to behave, who understand… logistics.”
A stunned silence blanketed the lounge. The redhead covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
The manager’s jaw tightened. “Madam, that is not a service we provide. This is an establishment for companionship, for—”
“For fucking,” Jane finished for him, pleasantly. “I know. And I’m proposing to streamline the process. I will pay you the standard fee for each gentleman’s time. All ten fees, upfront.” She fanned the notes slightly. “You can distribute it to them, or keep it as a house finder’s fee. I don’t care how you share it. Their time with me is complimentary. My only condition is that they all come together. A group booking.”
She let the image hang in the perfumed air: ten suited men, ten paid tickets, and her in the centre of them in the ruined red dress.
A man nearby, silver-haired and distinguished, choked on his whisky. The sound broke the spell.
The manager’s eyes darted from the money to Jane’s face, calculating the scene, the disruption, the sheer unprecedented weirdness of it. He also calculated the sum, which was considerable. “You are serious.”
“Never more so.” Jane’s heart was hammering against the boning of the corset. This was the peak of the rollercoaster, the moment before the plunge. “I want them to be nice. And I want them to make a proper mess of me. Can you arrange that, or is this place more… decorative than functional?”
It was the challenge that did it. The insult to the house’s operational pride. A faint, dangerous smile touched the manager’s lips. He gave a short, sharp nod. “Wait here, please.”
He moved into the crowd, a diplomat navigating a sudden, bizarre peace treaty. Jane stood alone in the centre of the room, the point of every gaze. She didn’t shrink. She took a slow, deliberate turn, meeting the eyes of the women. Some were appalled. Some were amused. The redhead gave her a sly, approving wink.
She heard snippets of the manager’s hushed negotiations. “A unique opportunity… a private event… all fees covered… discretion assured…”
A handsome man in his forties, with kind eyes and a wedding band he now slowly twisted, looked at Jane with a mixture of shock and intrigued fascination. He nodded to the manager. Then another, younger, with an athlete’s build, whispered something and got a firm nod in return.
They were being chosen. She was choosing them, by proxy. The power was an intoxicant, purer than the whiskey or the blue powder. Mark’s face flickered in her mind, a distant lighthouse on this wild, dark sea. This was for him, in some twisted way. This was the proof she didn’t need him, that she was capable of conjuring a cathedral of filth all on her own.
The manager returned, followed by a gathering cluster of men. They were of varying ages, builds, all well-dressed, all wearing expressions of bewildered, burgeoning consent. He had done well. They looked like barristers, bankers, maybe a professor. Nice men.
“Ten,” the manager said quietly to Jane, his voice barely a breath. “The agreement is as you stipulated. The house fee is for their booked time. What occurs in the private suite is a matter of… private consent.”
He had lowered his voice, but the room was wired for eavesdropping. A platinum blonde in a sheer black bodysuit rolled her eyes, turning her back pointedly. The redhead, though, was leaning forward, her champagne forgotten, watching Jane with the focus of a biologist observing a fascinating new specimen.
"Perfect," Jane said, handing the stack of notes to the manager without counting it. The trust was another weapon. "Now, for the arrangements. I'd like the gentlemen to go ahead to the room. Something with a nice big bed, if you have it. And could you please provide ten comfortable armchairs?For later."
The manager's eyebrows lifted a millimetre. He was a man accustomed to requests for ice buckets and specific vintages, not armchair bulk orders. "Ten armchairs."
"For recuperation. It’s a marathon, not a sprint." Jane gave him a smile that was all sharp edges. "Have them send up some water, too. Whisky. And snacks. The salty kind." She turned to the assembled men, her gaze sweeping over their uncertain, intrigued faces. Their collective quiet was a tangible thing. "Gentlemen, please follow Marcus here. I'll be along in just a moment. Get comfortable. This isn't a performance. It’s a… collaborative effort."
She watched them go, a solemn, well-dressed procession led by the manager through a velvet curtain. The air in the main lounge seemed to exhale, then fill with a buzzing current of whispered speculation.
The manager returned, his face a careful blank. "The suite is being prepared to your… specifications. Was there anything else, madam?"
Jane stepped closer. "There is. I'll also be requiring the services of four of your finest ladies."
A beat of absolute stillness. The manager’s eyes narrowed, recalibrating. "For the gentlemen, once you are… finished? A rotation is certainly possible, for an additional—"
"No," Jane interrupted, her voice flat and final. She was constructing the stage now, piece by perfect piece. "None of them will be fucked. I am the only one getting that privilege tonight." She let the bald statement hang, watching him process it. "But I will need their assistance. I will pay their full rate, for their full time. They will be working. Just… not in the traditional sense."
The manager blinked, a small, rapid tic. He glanced toward the hidden corridor where the men had disappeared. The financial arithmetic in his head was clearly astronomical, and heavily in the house's favour. "What, precisely, would their duties entail?"
"My duties," Jane said. She looked past him, scanning the room of lounging women. Her eyes landed on the sly redhead first—a cascade of coppery waves over a sculpted shoulder, intelligent green eyes, a body poured into a simple, devastating column of jade silk. She pointed. "Her."
She continued her selection, her criteria visceral and immediate. A statuesque Black woman with close-cropped hair and a geometric silver dress that seemed to be painted on, all cutting angles and cool elegance. A petite Asian woman with a mischievous smile and a sheer pink chiffon number that revealed intricate lace beneath. Finally, a Nordic-looking blonde in minimalist white lingerie, her athletic body a study in poised stillness.
"Those four." Jane turned back to the manager. "After I have enjoyed each man’s cum, should any gentleman fancy a repeat, or perhaps to try one of my other holes—which I really, really hope they will—they are more than welcome. They may take one of those nice, comfy armchairs. That is where your four ladies will be stationed. Their sole job will be to offer a… helping hand. Or mouth. Whatever is required. A dedicated support team, focused solely on getting their assigned gentleman ready to rejoin the main event.Me."
For the first time, the manager’s impeccable composure slipped. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. He looked from Jane to the four chosen women, who were now staring openly, their professional detachment replaced by open amusement and intrigue.
The redhead grinned, showing perfect teeth. She raised her glass in a tiny, silent toast to Jane.
The sound of a distant piano chord seemed unnaturally loud. The manager cleared his throat softly. "And the ladies are amenable to this… unconventional brief?"
"You can ask them," Jane said, her tone suggesting he was being obtuse. "But it sounds to me like a night off, with excellent pay, and a front-row seat to what I’m sure will be an absolute fucking circus. I doubt you’ll have trouble filling the positions."
He gave a short, sharp nod, the decision made. The money had made it, but the sheer theatrical audacity of it had sealed the deal. He was making a fortune. "I will confer with them. Please, follow me to the suite. We will finalise the logistics as we walk."
He led her through the velvet curtain, down a hushed hallway lit by sconces. The red satin of her dress whispered against her thighs, the gold chains a faint, cold jingle with each step. Her heart was a slow, heavy drum against the boning of the corset. This was it. The architecture of her fantasy was now complete, from the ten anonymous donors to the four hand-picked assistants in their plush armchairs. The gallery she had vandalized was now her exclusive, bespoke workshop.
The manager stopped before a heavy oak door. "The Sapphire Suite." He lowered his voice to a murmur meant only for her. "The armchairs are being arranged along the far wall. The bar is stocked. I will… direct your support staff when they are ready."
He opened the door.
The room was vast, a study in tasteful masculine luxury: dark wood, deep burgundy walls, a Persian rug the colour of old wine. The bed was indeed enormous, a four-poster draped in navy velvet. And there, arranged in a polite semi-circle near the fireplace, sat the ten men. They looked like they were waiting for a board meeting to commence. A trolley laden with crystal decanters, ice buckets, and silver dishes of nuts and olives stood between them.
All eyes turned to her as she entered.
She walked to the centre of the room, between them and the waiting bed, and turned. She let them look. She let the chains, the bare skin, the sheer narrative of her appearance sink in.
"Right," she said, her voice breaking the thick silence. "Let's get one thing straight. This isn't about you. Not individually." She unclasped her clutch, letting it drop to the floor with a soft thud. "It's about the cumulative effect. I want to be the absolute best thing that ever happened to you, collectively. And then I want you to leave me looking like I've been through a war."
A man with silver hair shifted in his chair. "How… do we begin?"