Chapter 17: Dinners on me
The damp towel clung to her skin as Gigi stepped from the steam, the hotel suite’s cool air raising goosebumps. Franco leaned against the ornate bathroom doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze a slow, appreciative sweep. "Perfect," he murmured, watching rivulets of water trace paths down her oil-slicked skin. "Just perfect." He tossed her the crimson dress. "Put it on. The harness bra underneath. The thong." His eyes lingered on the faint bruises the masseur’s grip had left high on her thighs. "They’ll see."
The harness straps bit familiarly into her shoulders and ribs beneath the silk, the intricate leatherwork a second skin, a binding promise. The crimson dress slid over her body like liquid fire, clinging to every curve, the deep V-neck revealing the top edge of the harness framing her cleavage. Franco adjusted a strap beneath the silk, his knuckle brushing her nipple, drawing a sharp intake of breath. "Ready?" His smile was sharp, predatory. He offered his arm, not a question.
The private dining room pulsed with low light, thick cigar smoke, and the murmur of deep male voices. Eight men, sleek in dark suits, occupied plush armchairs arranged around a low, gleaming table laden with crystal decanters. Beside each sat a woman – polished, beautiful, silent ornaments in shimmering gowns. Conversation stuttered as Franco entered, Gigi on his arm. Eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto her. A collective shift, a low hum of appreciation. "Franco," a silver-haired man boomed, raising his glass. "You've outdone yourself tonight. Truly exquisite." Nods and murmured agreements rippled around the circle. Franco guided Gigi to the single empty chair, pulling her down firmly onto his lap, his arm possessively encircling her waist. His hand rested high on her thigh, beneath the hem of the crimson silk. "Gentlemen," Franco acknowledged, his voice smooth, confident. "This is Gigi." Drinks were sipped. Eyes never left her. The conversation resumed – deals, markets, distant conflicts – a masculine current flowing around her. Gigi sat rigidly on Franco’s lap, acutely aware of his hard thigh beneath her, his thumb tracing idle circles on her inner thigh, dangerously close to the edge of her thong. She felt like a prize displayed. Gradually, subtly, some of the other women rose, melting silently from the room on whispered instructions. The silver-haired man – Jones – leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Gigi. "Franco," he began, his voice oily smooth. "Would you mind terribly if Gigi joined me for a moment? She’s utterly captivating." Franco’s hand tightened fractionally on her thigh. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. Then, a slight nod. "Of course, Arthur. Gigi?" His hand slid away, releasing her. Gigi stood, the silk whispering. Jones patted his lap. "Come here, darling." Heart pounding against the constriction of the harness, Gigi walked the few steps. She lowered herself onto Arthur Jones’s lap, his hands immediately settling on her hips. One large, heavy hand slid upwards, beneath the crimson silk, his palm hot and possessive against the bare skin of her thigh. His fingers crept higher. "Much better," Jones sighed, his breath warm and smelling of expensive scotch against her neck. His fingers brushed the lace edge of her thong. Franco watched, sipping his drink, his eyes dark pools in the low light.
Jones’s hand felt heavy and proprietary, his expensive watch cold against her bare skin just below the hem. She kept her eyes lowered, focusing on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug beneath Jones’s polished shoes, acutely aware of every slight movement of his fingers tracing higher. The crimson silk clung to her body like a second skin over the harness, outlining every contour. “Relax, darling,” Jones murmured, his voice a low rumble in his chest beneath her, his breath thick with cigar and single malt. His thumb pressed deliberately against the thin lace border of her thong, then slid firmly beneath the elastic, finding bare flesh. A small, involuntary gasp escaped Gigi’s lips. He chuckled softly, a dry, satisfied sound. Across the low table, Franco watched, his expression perfectly composed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. His eyes, though, held a dark, unreadable intensity fixed on where Jones’s hand disappeared beneath her dress. The other men had fallen silent, their attention rapt, cigars forgotten in ashtrays. Jones’s fingers explored the soft skin of her inner thigh, moving with deliberate slowness upwards. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks, the harness suddenly feeling like a cage beneath the clinging silk. His fingertips brushed the damp lace of her thong covering her mound. She could feel her own slickness. He paused, applying a subtle, testing pressure through the fabric. Gigi’s knuckles were white where she gripped Jones’s knee for balance, her body tensing against the invasion. “Such a lovely creature, Franco,” Jones commented idly, his fingers resuming their slow, relentless ascent, pushing aside the lace barrier entirely. His gaze never left Franco’s face, seeking permission or perhaps provoking. Franco took another slow sip of his drink, his stare unwavering, giving nothing away but silent assent. Jones shifted his knees slightly causing her legs to part. Jones’s fingers finally reached their destination, sliding unerringly into her wet heat.
Jones’s thick finger probed deeper, curling inside her wet heat as Gigi clenched her jaw against a moan. He withdrew slightly, the pad of his finger finding her swollen clit. With deliberate, maddening precision, he flicked the sensitive bud once, twice. Gigi jolted in his lap, a sharp gasp escaping before she could smother it, her knuckles whitening where she gripped his knee. Her body arched despite her effort to stay rigid, betraying the electric jolt that shot through her. "Franco," a younger man across the table drawled, swirling his cognac, his eyes glued to the tented silk over Gigi's chest. "That harness bra you mentioned earlier... sounds intriguing." Gigi’s head snapped towards Franco, her eyes wide with disbelief and panic. Franco leaned back, swirling his own drink, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "She's wearing it right now," he stated easily, his gaze locked on Gigi's exposed distress. "Perhaps you gentlemen should see for yourselves." Jones chuckled low in his chest, his finger resuming its slow, torturous circles on her clit as he stared directly into Gigi’s terrified eyes. "I'd love a peek myself, Franco," Jones purred, his breath hot on her neck. "Might get one for my girlfriend." Two men – the one who spoke and a burly colleague – rose smoothly from their chairs, moving behind Gigi. Strong hands gripped the crimson silk at her shoulders. In one swift, practiced motion, they yanked the dress down to her waist, exposing the intricate black leather harness that criss-crossed her torso, framing her bare breasts for the smoky room. Gigi froze, trapped on Jones's lap, her breasts fully exposed to the ring of watching eyes, Jones's finger still working her slickness. A wave of raw vulnerability crashed over her, hot shame mixing with an undeniable pulse of dark desire beneath the many gazes. Franco watched it all, his expression one of cool, detached ownership, savoring her exposure. The air thickened with the scent of arousal, smoke, and power.
The sudden rush of cool air on her exposed breasts tightened her nipples painfully. Jones's finger kept circling her clit, relentless, as the other men crowded closer, shadows falling across her skin. "Christ, Franco," breathed the younger man, reaching out a tentative finger to trace the leather strap cutting between her breasts. "Intricate." His touch was impersonal, clinical, yet sent a fresh wave of hot shame washing over Gigi. "My turn," rumbled the burly man who’d helped strip her dress, his thick fingers already replacing Jones's, pushing two knuckles deep inside her while his thumb ground hard against her clit. Gigi cried out, arching involuntarily against the invasion, her eyes instinctively seeking Franco’s. He watched, expressionless, swirling his drink. "Gentlemen," Franco said, his voice cutting through her ragged breathing, "share." The command hung, absolute. Jones reluctantly slid his hand from beneath her dress, relinquishing his grip on her hips. The younger man immediately took his place, pulling her off Jones’s lap, his hands rough as he positioned her kneeling on the deep rug between the chairs. His expensive trousers rasped against her bare thighs as he pushed her head down. "Open," he commanded, pressing the head of his cock against her lips. The salt-tang of pre-come filled her mouth as she obeyed, the leather of the harness digging into her ribs with the angle. Across the room, the burly man had already unbuckled his belt, the heavy thud of his trousers hitting the floor echoing. He approached Gigi from behind, his thick fingers spreading her ass cheeks. She felt the blunt, insistent pressure, then the slow, agonizing stretch as he pushed his cock into her ass, filling her brutally. "Fucking tight," he grunted, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She choked around the cock in her mouth as he began thrusting, deep and punishing. Franco’s polished shoes appeared in her limited vision. He crouched, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back sharply off the cock she was servicing. His dark eyes held hers, seeing the tears, the panic, the bewildered arousal. "All of them, Gigi," he stated, his voice low and devoid of mercy. "Every one." He released her hair, and the younger man immediately pushed his cock back into her mouth, thrusting deep down her throat while the man behind her hammered into her ass. Another man knelt before her, his fingers roughly parting her lower lips, thrusting two fingers into her wet, stretched pussy alongside the cock in her ass. The room dissolved into a haze of grunts, sweat, cigar smoke, and the slick, obscene sounds of her body being used. Hands gripped, pulled, penetrated. Her senses overloaded, the harness straps biting, her body a nexus of conflicting sensations – pain, fullness, the relentless friction sparking unwanted, devastating waves of pleasure that crashed through her shame. She came violently around the fingers in her pussy, convulsing, gagging on the cock in her mouth. The man behind her swore, pistoning harder, his climax hitting deep inside her ass. The man she was sucking groaned, pulsing hot salt into her throat. Franco watched, unmoving, as she was pulled from one man to the next, passed like a vessel, each claiming their fill while she trembled, slick and broken on the rug, her crimson dress pooled forgotten around her waist. Only when the last man withdrew, leaving her shuddering and empty, did Franco step forward. He hauled her up by the harness straps, the leather biting into her skin. Her knees buckled; he held her upright against him. "Mine," he stated flatly to the room, his hand possessively covering her exposed mound, slick with multiple men's touch. "Clean yourself up."
Franco’s grip on the harness straps tightened, hauling her upright against his solid frame as her knees threatened to buckle. The mingled scents of sweat, cigar smoke, and sex hung thick and cloying in the air, clinging to her exposed skin. "Now," he commanded, his voice low and devoid of warmth, releasing her abruptly. Gigi stumbled towards the adjoining bathroom, the luxurious carpet soft beneath her bare feet, the crimson silk pooled uselessly at her waist. Inside, harsh light glared off marble tiles, reflecting her fragmented image: smeared makeup, tear-streaked cheeks, breasts marked by the harness’s intricate bite, skin glistening with drying fluids. She turned the faucet, the water scalding hot, and grabbed a thick white towel, scrubbing roughly at her thighs, her belly, between her legs, trying to erase the feel of unfamiliar hands, the invasive thrusts, the humiliating exposure. The rough terrycloth scraped her sensitized skin, a futile attempt to scour away the violation. She avoided her own eyes in the mirror, focusing only on the angry red marks left by the harness straps, Franco’s brand upon her. The door clicked open behind her. Franco filled the doorway, his suit jacket discarded, tie loosened, eyes dark and assessing her frantic scrubbing. He moved silently, his presence radiating cold control. "Stop," he ordered, his voice slicing through the steam. He took the damp towel from her trembling hands and tossed it aside. His fingers, strong and deliberate, traced the leather strap crossing her collarbone, then slid down, skimming the curve of her breast, the indentations the harness had pressed into her flesh. His touch wasn't gentle; it was proprietary, reasserting dominion. "You belong here," he stated flatly, his gaze locking onto hers in the mirror, his hand sliding possessively down her oil-slicked back to grip her hip hard, pulling her flush against him. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her lower back through his trousers. "You take what I give." His other hand slid firmly between her legs from behind, fingers delving deep into her still-slick heat, claiming her anew. Gigi gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder, her body arching involuntarily against the sudden, rough penetration. He held her pinned there, his fingers working inside her with ruthless efficiency, his breath hot against her ear. "Say it," he demanded, his thrusting fingers relentless. "Say who you belong to." Tears welled again, hot and shameful. "You," she choked out, the word ripped from her. "Franco." He withdrew his fingers slowly, slick and glistening, and brought them to her lips. "Taste it," he commanded. Her eyes met his in the mirror, wide with residual terror and a dark, unwanted flicker of submission. She opened her mouth, her tongue touching the salty-sweet evidence of his claim. Franco watched, satisfaction hardening his features. "Mine," he affirmed, the single word final, absolute. He released her hip, stepping back slightly, leaving her trembling before the mirror, marked inside and out.
Franco’s fingers lingered near her lips, slick and demanding. The bathroom air felt thick with steam and the musk of their confrontation. Gigi trembled, the cold marble vanity pressing into her back, the harness straps like brands beneath her skin.
A sharp rap shattered the tense silence. The bathroom door swung open before Franco could respond. Arthur Jones filled the doorway, his silver hair slightly disheveled, his expensive suit jacket unbuttoned. His eyes, sharp and hungry, scanned Gigi’s exposed body, lingering on the harness marks and her tear-streaked face.
"Franco," Jones stated, his voice rough, ignoring Gigi’s flinch. He gestured vaguely towards the opulent bedroom suite. "That was...invigorating." He took a step inside, the scent of expensive scotch and cigar smoke clinging to him. His gaze locked onto Gigi, a predatory gleam replacing his earlier polished charm. "But unfinished."
Franco shifted subtly, his body partially shielding Gigi, a low hum of irritation vibrating in his chest. "Arthur?" His tone was cool, a warning beneath the surface.
Jones waved a dismissive hand, his focus unwavering on Gigi. "Round two, Franco," he demanded, his voice dropping, thick with entitlement. "Right now. I want her properly." He pointed towards the vast bed visible through the doorway. "On that." His eyes raked over her again, possessive and impatient. "All of her."
Franco’s expression hardened, a flicker of annoyance beneath his practiced control. "Not tonight, Arthur," he stated, his voice clipped, final. "She needs rest." He didn’t move from his position shielding her.
Arthur ignored the refusal, stepping fully into the steamy room. He moved behind Gigi with predatory grace, one arm snaking around her waist, his fingertips finding and pressing possessively against her mound through the damp silk still bunched there. His other arm wrapped across her torso, his large hand engulfing her breast, kneading roughly as he pressed his lips to her neck.
His breath was hot, smelling of scotch and cigars. "Such a rare creature," he whispered directly into her ear, his fingers never ceasing their intimate pressure. Gigi stood frozen, Franco’s possessive grip on her shoulder a stark counterpoint to Arthur’s invasive hold. The harness straps dug deeper.
After a long, tense minute vibrating with Arthur’s insistent touch, Gigi’s voice emerged, thin but clear. "If Franco is okay with it," she whispered, her eyes fixed blindly on the fogged mirror, "you can have me, Arthur." Arthur’s gaze snapped over her shoulder, locking onto Franco’s impassive face. Franco studied Gigi’s rigid reflection, then gave a single, curt nod. Permission granted.
Arthur released her breast, his hand sliding down to grip hers firmly. Without another word, he turned, pulling her stumbling from the humid bathroom, past Franco’s silent figure, towards the vast bed dominating the dimly lit suite. The crumpled crimson silk was a dark pool on the floor near the bathroom door. They stopped beside the bed, alone together in the low light filtering through the city windows. Arthur turned her to face him, his hands framing her face, his eyes gleaming. He kissed her, hard, demanding, his tongue pushing past her lips while his hands urgently worked at his belt buckle, the zipper of his trousers rasping loudly.
Gigi’s hands moved mechanically, helping him peel down the expensive fabric, freeing his thick, flushed cock. It sprang free, rigid against her stomach. She broke the kiss, gasping, her movements wooden as she lowered herself onto the cool silk duvet. Arthur followed her down, his heavier body covering hers, one hand already tracing the lines of the harness still biting into her skin. "Extraordinary," he murmured, his gaze tracing the contrast between the dark leather and her deep brown skin in the dimness, his fingers tracing the faint bruises from the masseur and the earlier encounter. His touch felt clinical, appreciative. Beneath him, Gigi’s hand lifted, trembling slightly, her fingers wrapping around his erection. She began long, slow strokes, her eyes distant, unfocused on the ornate ceiling as he continued exploring the map of marks Franco had allowed to be made on her.
Arthur’s appreciative murmurs ceased as Gigi’s slow strokes tightened. “Enough,” he growled, his voice thick with urgency. He pushed her hand aside, his own grip finding her hips, hauling her lower body firmly against his. Positioning himself, he thrust into her wet heat with a single, deep stroke that punched the air from her lungs, the harness straps biting sharply as her back arched off the duvet. He drove into her relentlessly, his rhythm punishing and efficient, focused solely on his own building pressure. The bed frame groaned softly under the force, his expensive cufflink scraping her hipbone. Gigi turned her face into the cool silk, breathing the scent of him – scotch, smoke, sweat – as he used her body. His pace became erratic, frantic, a harsh gasp escaping him before he slammed deep and held, shuddering as he emptied himself inside her, his fingers digging bruises alongside Franco’s and the masseur’s marks.
He collapsed partially onto her, his weight heavy and suffocating, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. For a long moment, the only sounds were their harsh breathing and the distant hum of the city below. Then, Arthur shifted, still buried deep but softening, his lips brushing her ear. “You feel incredible, darling,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble meant only for her. “Like warm silk wrapped around steel. Franco’s a lucky bastard.” His hand traced a possessive line down her sweat-slicked side, skimming the harness strap. “Don’t let him break you.” He withdrew slowly, the loss abrupt, leaving her feeling hollow and exposed on the rumpled silk. He rolled off the bed with a grunt, moving with the functional ease of a man satisfied. Gigi lay still, watching his silhouette in the dim light as he efficiently pulled up his trousers, fastened his belt, smoothed his silver hair. He didn’t look back as he buttoned his jacket, the soft click of the door latch signaling his departure.
Silence, thick and charged, filled the enormous suite. Gigi remained on the bed, the scent of Arthur’s release mingling with the lingering smoke and her own sweat. Franco stood near the bathroom doorway, a dark silhouette against the light spilling from within, his gaze fixed on her prone form. He hadn't moved. His stillness was more unnerving than Arthur’s violence.