Chapter 13: The Backstage Distraction
The Velvet Lounge breathed in the dark, a living creature of smoke and bass. Doug stood on the sticky pavement outside, the neon sign painting his face in alternating waves of crimson and bruised purple. He could feel the thump of the music through the soles of his shoes.
Pushing through the heavy, vinyl-padded door was like entering a different atmosphere. The air was thick, humid with sweat and spilled beer, cut through with the cloying sweetness of cheap body spray. Strobe lights fractured the darkness, illuminating glimpses of gyrating flesh, the glint of pole chrome, the wet shine of eyes in the gloom. The music was a physical thing, a relentless, pounding beat that vibrated in his molars.
He found a stool at the end of the bar, a vantage point. It took his eyes a moment to adjust. Girls in scraps of neon and lace moved through the shadows, their smiles bright and vacant as camera flashes. He ordered a beer he didn’t want, the bottle slick and cold in his hand.
And then he saw her.
She emerged from a curtained doorway near the stage, a vision so incongruous it stole his breath. Becca. His Becca. But not. She wore white—a barely-there lingerie set of lace and satin that glowed under the black lights. Her blonde hair was sleek, falling straight over her shoulders. Her face, with its innocent, wide-eyed look, was expertly painted—darkened eyes, a pouty red mouth. She looked like a corrupted angel, a piece of his domestic life dropped into this grimy inferno.
She didn’t see him. She moved with a new, terrifying confidence, her hips finding the rhythm of the music as she approached a raised platform near the back. A man in a rumpled suit was already waiting, perched on the plush velvet bench that ringed the platform. He was older, his tie loosened, his gaze hungry.
Becca stepped up. She placed her hands on the man’s shoulders, leaned in to whisper something in his ear. He nodded, his hands coming to rest on her waist. Money changed hands, tucked into the side of her g-string.
Then she began to move.
Doug’s grip tightened on his beer bottle. This was the “dancing.” It was a slow, sinuous torture. Becca turned, bending over, her ass in its sheer white lace scant inches from the man’s face. She glanced back over her shoulder, that innocent face now wearing a look of pure, knowing provocation. She grinded against the air, then lowered herself, straddling his lap without actually sitting. Her hands roamed over her own body, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples through the fabric, tracing down her stomach. The man’s hands crept higher, from her waist to the underside of her breasts. She allowed it, arching into his touch.
A hot, sour jealousy flooded Doug’s throat. It was immediately followed by a piercing, unwelcome arousal. This was what she did. This was what she was. The morning’s confession played in his head. I charge extra for swallowing.
He couldn’t look away.
A touch on his arm, light as a moth. He flinched.
A woman had slid onto the stool next to him. She was petite, Asian, with sharp, dark eyes and black hair cut in a severe bob. She wore a crimson corset and a smile that didn’t reach those eyes. “You look lost,” she said, her voice a low murmur that somehow cut through the music.
“I’m fine,” Doug said, his eyes darting back to Becca. The man’s face was now buried in the curve of her neck, his hands firmly on her ass.
“You’re watching ‘Bliss’,” the woman said, nodding toward Becca. “She’s something, isn’t she? Has that girl-next-door thing down perfect. Drives them wild.”
Bliss. Her stage name. Of course.
“She’s my wife,” Doug said, the words leaving him before he could think. He needed to say it, to plant a flag in this shifting, immoral sand.
The woman’s—Yuki’s—eyebrows lifted. A spark of genuine interest lit her gaze. “Is she now?” She took a sip of the clear drink in front of her. “And she invited you to come see the show. How… modern.”
On the platform, Becca had shifted. She was on her knees now, on the velvet between the man’s spread legs. Her hands were on his thighs. She was leaning in, her head dipping toward his groin. Doug’s heart hammered against his ribs.
Yuki followed his gaze. “Oh, she’s going for a VIP. That’s not just a dance.” She leaned closer to Doug, her perfume a spike of jasmine. “She’s going to suck his cock right here. They think it’s dark enough. It usually is.”
A roaring sound filled Doug’s ears. He saw Becca’s head descend. The man’s hand came up to cradle the back of her head.
“Come with me,” Yuki said, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
“What?”
“You don’t want to watch from here. You want to see it properly.” She pulled him off the stool. He stumbled, numb, and let her lead him through a labyrinth of dark corridors, away from the main floor. The music became a muffled throb. They stopped in a dim alcove, a service nook stacked with clean glass racks. A heavy curtain was partly drawn, revealing a sliver of a view.
They were behind the VIP platform. Through a gap in the drapes, Doug had a perfect, horrific, breathtaking side view.
Becca was on her knees. The man’s pants were open. His cock, thick and ruddy, was in her hand. She was stroking it, looking up at him with that deceptive, sweet face. Then she opened her mouth and took him inside.
Doug’s own cock, trapped in his jeans, jerked painfully. He was hard, fully, shamefully hard. He watched his wife’s lips stretch into a perfect O around another man’s shaft. He saw her cheeks hollow as she sucked. He saw the man’s head loll back, his mouth slack with pleasure.
Yuki was pressed beside him in the tight space. He could feel the heat of her body. Her hand slid down his arm, over his hip. “See?” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “She’s a natural. Look at her work.”
Becca’s head bobbed with a slow, expert rhythm. One of her hands worked the base of the man’s cock. The other was between her own legs, hidden by the frills of her white outfit, moving in a small, frantic circle. She was touching herself while she sucked him off.
“She’s getting off on it,” Yuki purred. Her hand found the bulge in his jeans and cupped it. He didn’t push her away. He was mesmerized. “This is what she lives for. The taste. The power. The degradation. She’s a beautiful little cocksucker, your wife.”
On the other side of the curtain, the man grunted, a low, animal sound. His hand fisted in Becca’s hair. He began to fuck her mouth in earnest, pulling her head forward onto his cock with short, brutal thrusts. Becca gagged, a wet, choking sound that made Doug flinch, but she didn’t pull away. She took it, her eyes watering, her hand moving faster between her legs.
“She’s going to make him come,” Yuki whispered. Her fingers were undoing his belt buckle, his button, his zipper. The cool air of the alcove hit his skin. Then her small, warm hand was inside his boxers, wrapping around his aching cock. “Do you want to watch her swallow it? Watch another man’s load shoot down your pretty wife’s throat?”
“Yes,” Doug gasped. The word was torn from him.
Yuki dropped to her knees in front of him. The sight was surreal: his wife, visible through a slit in a curtain, sucking a stranger raw, while this other woman, a stranger, knelt before him in a dark corner. Yuki didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth, deep and fast, her tongue flattening against his sensitive underside.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. The visual of Becca, the physical heat of Yuki’s mouth. He braced a hand against the wall, his hips twitching forward.
Becca chose that moment to glance over. Her eyes, glazed with lust and effort, found the gap in the curtain. They found Doug’s face, his pants open, his cock buried in Yuki’s mouth. For a split second, time froze. Becca’s rhythm faltered. The man in the suit groaned in protest.
Then Becca’s expression changed. It wasn’t shock. It was a feral, competitive glee. She locked eyes with Doug, held his gaze, and doubled down. She took the man’s cock so deep her nose pressed into his pubic hair. She deep-throated him, showing off, her throat working visibly as she swallowed around him. It was a direct challenge. A taunt.
You think that’s a good blowjob? Watch this.
The man erupted. Doug saw his body stiffen, saw his grip turn vicious on Becca’s hair. Becca’s eyes, still locked on Doug, widened slightly as the first pulse hit the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, once, twice, a third time. A trickle of white escaped the corner of her stretched lips and slid down her chin.
Yuki felt Doug’s tension. She sucked him harder, her hand pumping his shaft in sync with her mouth. “She’s swallowing it all,” Yuki mumbled around his cock, the vibration driving him mad. “She’s drinking every drop. Your slut wife is drinking strange cum while she watches me suck you.”
That was it. The coil snapped. Doug’s orgasm ripped through him, a violent, silent convulsion. He came into Yuki’s mouth, his body shuddering, his eyes forced open, forced to watch as Becca finally pulled off the man’s softening cock, licking her lips clean with a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue. She smiled at Doug, a smile smeared with ruin.
Yuki swallowed, then stood, wiping her mouth. She looked from Doug to Becca and back again, her devilish smile returning. “Fun family outing,” she said lightly, before melting back into the shadows of the corridor.
Doug fumbled with his pants, his hands trembling. Becca was collecting more money from the dazed, satisfied man. She tucked it away, patted his cheek, and slid off the platform. She walked, not toward the backstage, but directly toward his alcove.
She pushed through the curtain. She still smelled of sweat and sex and another man’s cologne. The evidence was on her face, in the smudged lipstick, the faint, sticky trail on her jaw.
She looked at his disheveled state, at the obvious guilt and arousal warring on his face. Her blue eyes were blazing.
“You watched,” she stated.
“You knew I was there.”
“I felt you,” she corrected. She stepped into him, her body pressing against his. She was trembling, a live wire of adrenaline and lust. “Seeing her on her knees for you… it made me so fucking hot. I wanted to show you what a real cock whore can do.”
She kissed him then, hard. He could taste it—the bitter, salty trace of the stranger’s come. It should have revolted him. It ignited him. He kissed her back, his tongue delving into that filthy, beautiful mouth.
She broke the kiss, panting. “I have another dance. A regular. He books the back room.” Her eyes were dark, serious. “It’s not a dance. He has a huge dick, and he loves to see me ride it.”
Doug’s breath hitched. The image was instant, vivid.
“I want you to watch that, too,” she breathed. “I want you to see him fill me. I want you to see how wet I get for it."
She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and walked away, the white lace of her outfit a ghostly beacon in the dark hall. Doug adjusted his clothes, the taste of another man still on his lips, the promise of a deeper corruption hanging in the cloying air. He would watch. There was no question anymore.
There was no question anymore.
He followed the flash of her white lace through the labyrinth of backstage corridors, the muffled bass thumping like a frantic heartbeat through the walls. The air grew hotter, smelling of stale cigarettes and mildew. Ahead, Becca disappeared through an unmarked black door.
A hand caught his elbow, pulling him into a shallow recess beside a fire extinguisher. It was Yuki. Her crimson corset was a splash of blood in the dimness. “Not that way,” she whispered. “You’ll get her fired. Or worse.” Her sharp eyes assessed him. “You still want to see?”
Doug nodded, a tight, jerky motion.
“This way. For a price.” She held his gaze, her meaning clear. He nodded again. She led him further down, past a grumbling ice machine, to a door marked ‘Electrical’. It opened onto a narrow catwalk of metal grating, high in the shadows above a different room.
Below was a private booth, all plush red velvet and dim, golden lighting. A single man sat there, a mountain of denim and leather. He had a thick beard, and his hands, resting on his knees, were wide and callused. Becca stood before him, her back to the mirror, saying something Doug couldn’t hear.
Yuki pressed close behind Doug on the cramped catwalk. Her breath was warm on his neck. “That’s ‘Hawk’,” she murmured. “A regular. A tipper. Her favorite.”
Down below, Becca sank to her knees. Hawk said something, and she nodded, her blonde hair falling forward. Her hands went to his belt. With a deliberate slowness, she unbuckled it, unbuttoned his jeans, and tugged them down just enough. What she pulled out made Doug’s own breath stutter.
It was thick, impossibly so, a heavy, ruddy shaft that curved upwards like a crude weapon. The head was broad and mushroom-shaped, veined with ridges. It was, without exaggeration, one of the biggest cocks Doug had ever seen.
“Jesus,” Doug breathed.
“She calls it her challenge,” Yuki whispered. Her hands slid around his waist from behind. Her fingers deftly opened his jeans, freeing him. Her small, cool hand wrapped around his hardening length and began to stroke with a slow, knowing rhythm. “Watch. She worships that thing.”
Becca leaned forward, her expression one of pure, reverent hunger. She didn’t just take him in her mouth. She nuzzled it first, running her cheek along the thick vein on the underside. She kissed the swollen head, licking away a bead of moisture with a kittenish flick of her tongue. Then she opened her mouth wide, straining to fit the glans inside. Her lips stretched taut, white around the pressure.
She couldn’t take much. She worked what she could with her mouth, her tongue swirling, while her hand pumped the monstrous base. She looked up at Hawk through her lashes, a parody of submissive adoration, but her eyes were bright with fierce, greedy pleasure.
“She loves the stretch,” Yuki said, her strokes on Doug accelerating. “She told me once it makes her feel owned. Ruined.”
Hawk’s hand fisted in her hair, not forcing, just holding. Becca increased her efforts, slurping, gagging softly, her free hand sneaking between her own legs to rub frantic circles over her white lace. Her hips jerked against her own touch. She was getting off on the sheer difficulty of it, on the obscene size filling her mouth.
Then Hawk pulled her up by her hair. He said a single word. “Ride.”
Becca stood on trembling legs. She turned, presenting herself to him, and guided that immense cockhead to her entrance. She lowered herself slowly, an agonizing inch at a time. Her face, visible in the mirror, was a mask of exquisite strain. Her mouth formed a silent ‘O’ as she stretched, stretched, stretched to accommodate him.
Yuki’s hand was a tight, urgent piston on Doug’s cock. “Look at her take it,” she hissed in his ear. “Look at your wife’s hungry little cunt swallowing that monster.”
Becca sank down until she was fully impaled, seated in Hawk’s lap. A shuddering cry finally escaped her. She began to move, not with grace, but with a brutal, piston-like desperation. She rode him hard, fucking herself on him, each upward stroke making her gasp, each downward plunge forcing a choked moan from her throat. The sight of her slender body trying to conquer that thickness was profoundly corrupt.
Her movements became erratic, frantic. “I’m… I’m cumming!” she wailed, the words echoing faintly up to the catwalk. Her body seized, back arching violently, her internal muscles clamping around the invading girth. She shook through it, sobbing, her fingers digging into Hawk’s leather-clad thighs.
Before the spasms even finished, she was moving again, chasing another. “Again!” she begged, slamming down onto him. “Fuck, make me cum again!” She was a animal, mindless, using his body to brutalize her own into repeated, shattering peaks. Each orgasm seemed to wring a louder, cruder scream from her. “Yes! Oh god, yes! Fill me up, you fucking stallion! Breed this slut!”
Hawk just watched, a stone-faced king on his velvet throne, letting her use herself on him. His hands gripped her hips, helping her drive down harder, faster.
“She’s nothing but a hungry hole for him,” Yuki rasped, her own breathing ragged now against Doug’s neck. Her hand was a blur. “She’d let him break her. She wants him to.”
Doug couldn’t speak. His climax was a train gathering speed in the dark tunnel of his spine. He was watching his wife, his innocent Becca, beg to be bred by a stranger with a cock like a forearm. The betrayal was absolute. The arousal was catastrophic.
Below, Hawk finally grunted, a deep seismic rumble. His hips pistoned up off the seat, driving up into her one final, devastating time. Becca shrieked, her body bowing, as he emptied himself inside her. Doug saw the man’s thick thighs tremble with the force of his release.
That image—the knowledge of that foreign seed pumping deep into his wife—was the detonator.
Doug came with a stifled, strangled gasp. His orgasm ripped through him, silent and violent, spilling over Yuki’s tightening fist. He shook, his forehead pressed against the cool metal mesh of the catwalk wall, as the pulses seemed to drain every thought, every shred of himself, from his body.
When his vision cleared, Becca was collapsing forward onto Hawk’s chest, spent and dripping. Hawk patted her back, a casual, dismissive gesture, before gently pushing her off. He tucked himself away, tossed a stack of bills onto the velvet beside her, and left without a backward glance.
Becca lay there for a moment, a wreck of smeared makeup and gleaming sweat. Then, slowly, she pushed herself up. She gathered the money. She didn’t look ashamed. She looked sated, profoundly satisfied, like a well-fed predator.
She looked directly up at the shadowed catwalk, as if she’d known he was there all along. A slow, utterly shattered smile spread across her face.
She then crooked a finger, beckoning him down.
She held his gaze as he descended the metal stairs, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the persistent bass. Yuki melted away into the shadows, her role as silent facilitator complete. Becca didn’t move from the velvet, where the damp spot of their joining still glistened under the low light.
Her skin was fever-hot when he reached her. The air around her was thick with the smell of Hawk—leather, cheap whiskey, and the distinctive, musky scent of sex. She grabbed the front of Doug’s shirt, pulling him close until their foreheads touched. Her breath was ragged.
“Did you see?” she panted, her voice shredded. “Did you see how he filled me?”
“I saw.” The words were dust in his throat.
She kissed him, a possessive, grinding kiss that tasted of exhaustion and triumph. When she pulled back, her blue eyes were pits of black. “I can feel it,” she whispered, guiding his hand between her legs, pressing his fingers against her swollen, slippery flesh. “I can feel his come inside me, Doug. It’s so deep. I’m so fucking full of him.”
Her openness, the crude, proud declaration, sent a fresh jolt through him. He could feel the heat, the undeniable wet proof of another man’s ownership. His cock, spent minutes ago, gave a traitorous twitch.
“You’re a mess,” he said, the statement somehow an endearment.
“I’m your mess,” she corrected, finally standing on unsteady legs. She winced, a genuine flicker of pain crossing her face. “He’s… huge. I’ll be sore for days. I’ll feel him every time I walk.” She said it with a kind of reverent satisfaction, pulling her lingerie back into place. The white fabric was stained, irrevocably.
Yuki reappeared, holding a silken robe. “Show’s almost over, Bliss. Last call.” She helped Becca into the robe, her movements efficient, sisterly. “Your hubby got his money’s worth, huh?” She smirked at Doug, then leaned in to Becca to say. "He's got a nice dick, I'm gonna have to take a turn with that next time."