Chapter 1: Latex and Temptation in the VIP Lounge
The air in the riding club’s VIP lounge was a thick cocktail of expensive perfume, saddle leather, and male ambition. Anni felt it shift the moment she pushed through the doors, a cool wave of attention following her to the bar. Eyes, mostly men’s, lingered on the way the wet-look leggings painted her legs, on the sharp cut of the latex top that barely contained her breasts. She didn’t smile, just let the weight of their stares settle on her skin like a physical touch.
At the bar, Sabrina from the dressage team raised a manicured eyebrow. “Well, someone’s feeling festive.”
“It’s a party,” Anni said, her voice a low rasp. She caught the bartender’s eye. “Martini. Extra dry.” She leaned back against the polished wood, the cold surface a shock through the thin latex. The crystal chandeliers overhead caught the shimmer of her navel ring, the intricate ink swirling up her side. She pulled her phone from her clutch. The screen glowed in the dim light.
Landed. Already getting eyeballed. And thirsty. She typed to Alex, a small smirk playing on her lips. She sent it, then placed the phone face down on the bar, waiting for the vibration of his reply.
Her drink arrived. She took the stem between her fingers, let the cold glass kiss her lower lip before taking a slow sip. The gin was crisp, a clean blade cutting through the lounge’s syrupy atmosphere. She scanned the room without seeming to, noting who was watching, who was pretending not to. This was her other arena.
“Save a horse, ride a cowboy?” a smooth voice said beside her.
She didn’t turn immediately. She took another sip, let the olive roll on her tongue, pierced by the silver stud there. Then she looked. Thomas. An old friend of Alex’s, charming in a way that had always skirted the edge of something more. His smile was all teeth.
“Thomas.”
“Anni. You’re a vision. As always.” His gaze was a deliberate crawl from her boots to her eyes. “Where’s the better half?”
“Business trip.” She watched his eyes darken, a flicker of opportunity igniting.
“Ah.” He moved closer, the scent of his cologne mixing with the leather. “So. No one to tell you no tonight.”
Her pulse jumped, a treacherous little drumbeat low in her belly. She held his stare, challenging. “I’m a big girl.”
“I can see that.” His hand came up, not touching her, just hovering near the small of her back, over the intricate tattoo there. “This room is full of people trying very hard not to stare at you. It’s getting… loud. There’s a private room upstairs. Quieter. We could talk. Catch up.”
His breath was warm against her ear, the invitation hanging in the smoky air between them. For a second, the gin-hazed part of her imagined it. The private room. The feel of his hands on the latex, pulling it down. The rough press of him against a wall.
Then her phone buzzed on the bar, a sharp vibration against the wood.
She broke his gaze, picked it up. A single message from Alex lit the screen.
Thomas weiß genau, wer ich bin. Und wer du mir gegenüber bist. Ohne mein Go gibt es heute gar nichts für ihn außer seiner eigenen Fantasie.
Anni’s spine straightened, a different kind of tension locking her joints. She looked from the screen to Thomas, whose smirk had softened into something more knowing, more patient. He’d always pushed, testing the boundaries Alex had set.
“Catch up,” she repeated his word, her voice flat. She set her glass down with a definitive click. “You know I’m Alex’s wife. You know what I am for him.” She leaned in, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. “His. Without his permission… without his direct order… all you get today is a memory to jerk off to later.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed, but a dark laugh escaped him. “Always so blunt.”
“It’s not bluntness. It’s rules.” Her phone buzzed again. She glanced down.
Setz dich zu den alten Herren vom Vorstand. Am großen Ecktisch. Heiz ihnen ein bisschen ein. Und berichte mir.
She felt a slow smile spread on her lips, a different kind of excitement, cold and sharp, replacing the thrum of potential sin. This was a command. A task. A different game.
“Duty calls,” she said, turning her body away from Thomas, a clear dismissal.
“Anni—”
“Enjoy the fantasy, Thomas,” she threw over her shoulder, not looking back. The wet-look leggings whispered as she walked, her hips swaying just a fraction more, knowing he was watching. Let him look. Let him ache. It was all he was permitted.
The corner table was a fortress of dark wood and cigar smoke, inhabited by three men whose names were etched on club plaques and whose fortunes were built on steel and concrete. They were in their sixties, silver-haired, wearing bespoke suits that cost more than her saddle. They fell silent as she approached, their conversation dying mid-sentence.
“Gentlemen,” Anni said, her voice honeyed now, losing its edge. “Mind if I join you? It’s loud everywhere else.”
Chairs scraped back. Glasses were adjusted. She sat, crossing her legs slowly, letting the light catch the sheen of her clothing. She accepted a glass of champagne one of them offered, her fingers brushing his briefly.
“We were just discussing the new breeding program,” said Hartmann, the Chairman, his eyes fixed on the intricate tattoo peeking from the neckline of her top.
“Fascinating,” Anni murmured, leaning forward on her elbows, which pushed her breasts together. She saw his gaze drop for a split second before snapping back to her face. “I’ve always believed bloodlines tell the most important story.” She took a sip, her pierced tongue catching a stray bubble on her lip. “Don’t you agree, Herr Vogel?”
Vogel, the finance guy, cleared his throat. “Indeed. Consistency is everything.”
Anni pulled her phone from her clutch, holding it below the table’s edge. Her thumbs moved quickly.
Bin bei ihnen. Hartmann kann nicht mehr geradeaus gucken. Vogel schwitzt.
She hit send, then placed the phone on her thigh. She turned her full attention back to Vogel, letting her knee brush against his under the table.
“Consistency,” she repeated, tilting her head. “But sometimes, a little… unexpected spark in the line? That’s what creates a champion. Something that doesn’t follow the usual rules.” She let the word ‘rules’ hang, loaded, in the air.
Hartmann chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “You speak like someone with experience, my dear.”
She smiled, a secret, knowing curve of her lips. “I’ve been trained to recognize potential. In all kinds of… animals.” Her phone vibrated against her leg. She discreetly glanced down.
Gut. Und der Dritte? Steiger? Er ist der Schüchterne.
Anni looked at the third man, Steiger. He was the quietest, watching the interaction like a spectator at a tense tennis match. He had kind eyes, she thought.
She reached for the champagne bottle in the center of the table, making a show of it, stretching so the latex strained across her torso. “Herr Steiger, your glass is empty.” She poured for him, her hand steady. “A man who watches so closely must have strong opinions. What do you think about my theory of sparks?”
Steiger’s ears went pink. He took the refilled glass. “I think… tradition has its place. But vitality is equally important.” His voice was softer than the others.
Steiger ist süß. Verlegen. Er wird rot, she typed under the table, her other hand toying with the stem of her glass. She sent it.
Hartmann shifted in his seat, his hand dropping to his lap. Anni noticed the subtle adjustment. A warm, wicked thrill shot through her. This was power of a different kind. Raw, but held on a leash Alex controlled from miles away.
“Vitality,” she echoed Steiger, her gaze sweeping to include all three. “Yes. That’s exactly it. It’s what makes the heart race. Isn’t that the whole point?”
Her phone buzzed once more. This time, she read it and had to fight to keep her expression neutral, a fresh, deep heat pooling low in her stomach.
This time, she read it and had to fight to keep her expression neutral, a fresh, deep heat pooling low in her stomach.
Alex’s text was clear.
Zieh das Latex hoch, richtig stramm. Lass es dann so langsam runterrutschen, dass die Ansätze deiner Warzen sichtbar werden. Zeig es ihnen.
She took a slow breath, the air tasting of cigar smoke and champagne bubbles. Placing her phone back on her thigh, she smiled at Hartmann. “You know, it’s quite warm in here, don’t you think?” she said, her voice pitched for the table.
“The company is… heating up,” Vogel managed, his eyes glued to her.
“Mmm.” Anni stood up, a smooth, deliberate motion. She placed her hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward, giving them a full view down her top. Then, with a practiced slowness, she hooked her thumbs under the tight latex at her shoulders. She tugged the material upwards, the motion pulling the neckline even tighter across her chest, accentuating every curve until it was almost painful. She held it there for a three-count, letting them look their fill at the strained fabric.
Then, with a slow, teasing release of tension, she let the top slide back down. But she didn’t stop it. She guided it, letting the black latex sink lower, millimeter by agonizing millimeter, past the usual boundary of the deep V. The cool air of the room kissed her skin. She let it fall just enough to reveal the dusky, curved shadows at the very tops of her areolas, the edge of dark ink from a hidden tattoo peeking from the valley between her breasts. The silver barbells through her nipples caught the chandelier light, a fleeting glint from within the shadowed cleft.
She righted herself, not bothering to adjust it back. The top stayed where it was, a blatant, breathtaking display. Hartmann’s mouth was slightly open. Vogel had frozen, his drink halfway to his lips. Steiger looked down at the tablecloth, his neck flushed crimson.
“Better,” Anni sighed, sinking back into her chair as if she’d just done something utterly mundane. She crossed her legs again, the wet-look material sighing with the movement. She took a casual sip of champagne. “So, gentlemen. All this talk of bloodlines and breeding. What about your own private lives? Any… exciting projects at home?”
Hartmann found his voice first, a rough scrape. “My wife is in Gstaad. Skiing.”
“How… athletic of her,” Anni said, her tone flat. She turned to Vogel. “And you?”
“Divorced. Three years now.” He couldn’t stop staring at her chest.
“A man of freedom, then,” she mused, leaning back and letting one arm drape over the back of her chair, which thrust her chest forward. “That must be… liberating. No one to answer to. No one to tell you what you can’t have.” She let the implication hang, heavy and sweet as the cigar smoke. She finally glanced at Steiger, who was still studying the wood grain. “Herr Steiger? You’re the quiet type. I bet you have the most interesting private life of all. The quiet ones always do.”
Steiger looked up, his eyes darting to hers for a second before fleeing again. “I… I have my horses. And my books. It’s enough.”
“Is it?” Anni asked softly, almost kindly. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, her heel brushing his calf under the table. He flinched as if shocked. “It sounds peaceful. But sometimes peace is just another word for boredom.” She let a silence stretch, watching the three of them simmer in their own discomfort and desire.
She picked up her phone, acting as if checking a notification, but instead sending a quick pulse of a message to Alex.
Erledigt. Sie kochen.
She looked up, a new, conspiratorial smile on her lips. “You know, it’s funny you should ask about my theories on spark,” she said, her voice dropping. “My husband, Alex… he’s a firm believer in practice. In training. He’s away on a… business exercise right now.” She let the word ‘exercise’ linger, laced with suggestion. “Which means, for me…” She paused, swirling her champagne. “Tonight, it’s likely just going to be me and my battery-operated friends again. Such a shame, all this…” she gestured vaguely at herself, at the room, “…vitality, going to waste.”
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant thump of music from the main hall. Hartmann’s jaw was tight. Vogel had finally taken that drink, gulping it. Steiger looked like he might spontaneously combust.
Anni stood, the movement final. She gave the neckline of her top a tiny, futile tug upwards—a gesture that changed nothing—and collected her clutch. “Thank you for the champagne, gentlemen. And the conversation. It was… illuminating.” She walked away from the table, feeling their eyes burning into the back of her latex top, into the sway of her hips. The heat between her own legs was a live wire, buzzing in time with her heartbeat. She didn’t look back.