Chapter 1: Confessions Under Christmas Lights
The air in the basement bar was a solid thing, thick with pine-scented cleaner and spilled beer. Cheap fairy lights dripped from the ceiling beams, their reflection warping in the polished dark wood of the bar. Anni traced a finger through the condensation on her glass, the ice cubes nearly gone. Her third gin tonic.
“You don’t seem like the rest of them,” Thomas said. He’d materialized beside her twenty minutes ago, a tall, blonde interruption in a crisp white shirt. His smile was easy, his blue eyes focused. A wedding band caught the neon glow of the ‘Eggnog Special’ sign above the bottles.
“The rest of who?” Anni asked. She knew what he meant. The riding club was full of country prints and gossip about feed prices. She was the odd one out, a collection of ink and metal in a sea of quilted gilets.
“The PTA committee.” He grinned, sipping his whiskey. “Your sleeves. The boots. This whole… vibe. It’s compelling.”
She felt the buzz of the gin, warm and loose in her veins. The corset was a familiar cage, tightening with each breath, pushing her breasts up against the black lace of her top. She knew how she looked. She’d chosen it.
“Just me,” she said, and left it there.
But he was charming. He asked real questions, listened to the answers. His forearm rested on the bar, close to hers. She noticed the corded muscle, the dusting of blonde hair. Her phone buzzed in her boot. A single, distinct vibration. A check-in. She shifted, crossing her legs, and tapped a quick, pre-set response against her thigh. All fine. At bar.
“Expecting someone?” Thomas nodded toward the movement.
“Just my husband,” she said, watching his face.
A flicker. Then the smile again, undimmed. “Lucky man. He not a fan of parties?”
“He’s… busy.” The gin made the words slide out easier. The music switched to a low, bass-heavy Christmas song. The mistletoe dangling over the booth in the corner looked pathetic. “He trusts me.”
Thomas leaned in a little. The scent of his cologne was clean, expensive. “Should he?”
It was a line. A cheap one. But the alcohol and the low light and the sheer, boring normality of everything else made it feel like a key sliding into a lock. She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “You have no idea.”
“Try me.”
She looked at him then, really looked. Handsome. Confident. Utterly clueless. A normal man in a normal world. The contrast was suddenly hilarious, and aching, and she wanted to smash it.
She finished her drink, the lime bitter on her tongue. “Last weekend,” she said, her voice dropping. The music swallowed it, forcing him to lean closer. His shoulder brushed hers. “We were at this club. Club Libertine.”
She paused, letting the name hang. His expression didn’t change. He didn’t know it. Of course he didn’t.
“There’s a room. With a stained glass window that doesn’t let in any real light.” Her words were precise, clinical, a bizarre contrast to their content. “Alex—my husband—he sat in a chair. Like a throne. And he pointed at three men. Strangers. Their faces were just… shapes in the dark.”
Thomas’s smile had vanished. His eyes were fixed on hers, searching for the joke.
“He told me to service them.” She let the crude word hang in the pine-scented air. “So I did. On my knees. One after the other. And he watched. The whole time. Just watched.”
The bar around them seemed to recede. The clink of glasses, the laughter, it all tuned out to a dull hum. There was only the stark, garish glow of the Christmas lights on Thomas’s stunned face.
Anni leaned in, her lips almost touching his ear. Her whisper was clear, a shard of glass in the festive fog. “But I had to ask permission before I came.”
She pulled back, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. He was frozen, his charming banter obliterated. He saw the tattoos now, not as decoration but as a map to a country he didn’t know existed. He saw the silver glint of her tongue piercing as she slowly ran it over her bottom lip.
Her phone buzzed again. Insistent. Two vibrations this time.
She glanced down, then back at Thomas. The spell was broken. The normal world rushed back in, noisy and bright and cheap.
“I need some air,” she said, sliding off the bar stool. The wetlook leggings made a soft sound against the leather.
Thomas found his voice, but it was rough. “Anni, I… what…?”
She didn’t answer. She walked toward the back door, past the glowing restroom signs, feeling the weight of his stare on her back. The cool night hit her face as she pushed the heavy fire door open, stepping into the service alley. Bins lined the walls, smelling of stale beer and garbage.
She pulled the phone from her boot. The screen glowed in the dark.
Details. Alex’s message.
She took a shaky breath, the cold clearing the last of the gin fuzz. Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed.
Told a man at the bar about Libertine. About the three men. About the rule.
The reply was instant.
Good girl. His name?
She stared at the bricks on the opposite wall. Thomas’s handsome, shocked face floated in her vision. The wedding band on his finger. She typed.
Thomas. From the club. Married.
A pause. Then, three words appeared.
Bring him home.
The cold air of the alley bit through her top. Anni leaned against the rough brick, the phone a hot, living thing in her hand. Bring him home. The three words pulsed with implication. She knew what it meant. What was required.
The fire door creaked open, spilling a wedge of yellow light and the thump of music into the alley. Thomas stepped out, his frame silhouetted for a moment before the door swung shut, plunging them back into near-darkness.
“Anni?” His voice was hesitant. “Are you okay? What you said in there…”
She turned, the screen of her phone casting a blue glow up under her chin. “I’m perfect,” she said, her voice steady now, clean of its earlier teasing haze. “You’re still here.”
“I… I don’t know what that was. A story? A test?” He ran a hand through his blond hair. “Why would you tell me that?”
“Because it’s true.” She took a step toward him. The click of her boot heel on the wet asphalt was decisive. “And you liked hearing it.”
He didn’t deny it. He just stared, his breath making faint clouds in the air between them.
“My wife,” he started, the words stumbling out. “She’s… Christ, she thinks a certain position is kinky. She’s so fucking prudish. I’ve… I’ve read about things. Seen stuff online. Wanted to try. But with her?” He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s a dead bedroom with pastel sheets.”
Anni listened, absorbing his confession. This was the crack. This was the way in. She moved closer, until she could smell the whiskey on his breath, see the frantic pulse in his throat.
“Do you want me to ask my husband,” she whispered, her pierced tongue flicking out to wet her lips, “if I can suck your cock in the bathroom right now?”
Thomas made a sound, a sharp intake of breath mixed with a groan. His eyes dropped to her mouth. “You can’t be serious.”
She was already typing, her fingers flying over the screen. The message was succinct. Alley. He wants it. Can I take him to the ladies’ room and suck him off?
The reply was instantaneous. Yes. Film it.
She showed Thomas the screen. The ‘Yes.’ glowing in the dim light.
“He says yes,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial purr. “But I have to film it for him. He’ll be watching later.”
Thomas was rock hard. She could see the bulge straining against his tailored trousers. The moral war on his face was short, brutal, and utterly lost. The promise of a prudish wife was vaporized by the raw, illicit offer in front of him. He just nodded, a stiff, jerky movement.
Anni took his hand. It was sweaty. She led him back through the fire door, past the stacks of kegs, and into the single-occupancy women’s bathroom. It was cleaner than the alley, but not by much. The light was a harsh fluorescent buzz. She locked the door.
“Take it out,” she said, leaning back against the sink, pulling her phone up to start recording.
He fumbled with his belt, his fingers clumsy. The lust had stripped away his charm, leaving a naked, desperate hunger. His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking. Anni gave it a clinical glance, then focused the phone’s lens.
“Tell the camera your name,” she instructed, her tone flat.
“Thomas,” he breathed, staring at the phone like it was Alex himself.
She didn’t smile. She got on her knees on the cold tile floor. The position was practiced, automatic. She didn’t touch him with her hands, just leaned forward and took the head of his cock into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip, the metal ball of her piercing dragging along the sensitive slit.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his hands going to the sides of the sink behind her.
She worked him deeper, her head bobbing, taking him to the back of her throat. She hollowed her cheeks, applying suction, listening to his breathing turn ragged. She glanced up at the phone, making sure the angle was good, that every detail was captured: the stretch of her lips, the wet gleam on his shaft, the helpless roll of his hips.
“Oh god, your mouth… that fucking ring…” he choked out.
She increased the pace, one hand coming up to cup his balls, rolling them gently while she sucked him. It was a performance. Efficient, skilled, and completely detached. She was thinking about the angle of the phone, the need to get his come on camera, the sound of the hand dryer in the hall outside. She was thinking about being a good girl.
His thrusts became urgent, selfish. He was fucking her mouth now, his fingers tangling in her black hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna come…”
She didn’t pull away. She opened her throat, taking him deeper, letting him hit the back. Her eyes stayed open, fixed on the phone’s screen, watching herself work.
With a strangled shout, he came, jets of hot release pulsing down her throat. She swallowed, once, twice, keeping him in her mouth until he was soft and spent. Only then did she pull back, a thin strand of saliva and semen connecting her lips to his wilting cock for a second before it snapped.
She stopped the recording and stood up, her knees aching. She smoothed her leggings, then tapped out a quick message on her phone. Done. Has film.
Thomas was zipping himself up, his face a mask of stunned, post-orgasm shame and awe. “That was… I’ve never…”
“I know,” Anni said, checking her lipstick in the mirror. She turned to him. “We’re going to my place now. My husband is waiting.”
Thomas blinked. “Your place? But I…”
“You wanted to try something,” she said, cutting him off. Her blue-green eyes were like ice. “You just got the appetizer. The main course is at home. Get your coat.”
She unlocked the bathroom door and walked out, not checking to see if he followed. She knew he would. The text from Alex buzzed in her hand as she moved through the crowd, a final command.
Good girl. Hurry.