Chapter 3: Gangbang in the VIP
The velvet curtain at the lounge entrance swished aside.
Four silhouettes stood framed against the strobing lights of the main floor, their shapes instantly familiar. They had returned, but the playful performance was gone. This was all business. The neon signs flickered over taut muscles and the stark white of condoms sheathed over ready cocks.
Weiss, still breathless beneath Coco, turned her head. Her silver hair was plastered to her neck with sweat. “Oh,” she breathed, the word all air.
Coco paused, her mouth inches from Weiss’s skin. She looked over her shoulder, and a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. “Right on schedule, boys.”
She didn’t move to cover herself. Instead, she pushed herself up, kneeling on the couch beside Weiss’s naked form, a queen acknowledging her court. “Well, don’t just stand there. We’re just getting warmed up.”
A cheer, giddy and sharp, erupted from Ruby. She was still curled against Winter, her dress disheveled. “Round two!” she whooped, her earlier shyness incinerated by the night’s heat.
Winter simply arched a brow, a silent, imperious command. She gave Ruby a slight nudge, and the younger girl scrambled up, immediately pulling her dress over her head in a flutter of fabric. She stood there in simple white cotton underwear, all youthful energy and eager smiles.
The strippers moved into the room, their earlier choreography replaced by a predatory, silent purpose. The one with the dragon tattoo—Weiss recognized the ink coiling around his bicep—went straight for Coco. Another, taller and broader, approached Winter with a respectful nod that was almost funny given the circumstances. A third, lithe and quick, grinned at Ruby, who giggled and bounced on her toes.
And then there was him.
The one with the domino mask and the silence.
He walked toward Weiss, his movements fluid and unnervingly quiet. His eyes, behind the mask, held hers. He had watched her with Coco. He had seen everything. There was no leer, no crude gesture. Just that calm, amber focus.
Weiss’s heart hammered against her ribs. This felt different. Before, with the shock and the champagne, it had been a surreal dare. Now, after the intimacy with Coco, this was a choice. A deliberate leap.
Coco, already guiding her chosen stripper onto the adjacent couch, called over. “Don’t keep him waiting, Schnee. You started the job. Might as well finish it.”
Weiss pushed herself up, her body feeling both heavy and light. She didn’t look away from Ren. He stopped before her, close enough that she could see the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone, smell the clean, soapy scent cutting through the lounge’s perfume and sex.
He reached out a hand, not to her breast or between her legs, but to her face. His thumb brushed her lower lip, where it was no doubt swollen from kissing. The touch was startling in its gentleness. Then his hands settled on her shoulders, his grip firm.
He turned her, with undeniable authority, away from him. A guiding pressure on her back bent her forward, until her palms were flat on the sweat-slicked leather of the couch. She was on her hands and knees, exposed utterly to the room, to him.
Behind her, she heard the tear of a foil packet, the soft snap of latex. The sounds were everywhere now. From her left, Coco gave a throaty laugh as she lowered herself onto her stripper, facing away from him, reverse cowgirl, her beret miraculously still in place. She met Weiss’s wide eyes and winked.
“Eyes front, princess,” Coco purred, before letting her head fall back with a groan as she began to move.
To Weiss’s right, Winter had taken charge. She had her stripper seated, and was straddling him, her back straight as a rod, her severe bun still flawless. She moved with a clinical, powerful rhythm, her gray eyes fixed on some distant point on the wall, as if conducting a tactical operation. Ruby, meanwhile, was being gently laid back on a couch by her partner, his head already dipping between her thighs, her enthusiastic gasps rising above the music’s thrum.
Weiss had no more time to observe.
Ren’s hands were on her hips, his touch sure and steady. There was no fumbling, no awkward adjustment. He positioned himself and pushed forward in one smooth, inexorable motion.
Weiss cried out, her fingers clawing at the leather. He was thicker than she’d remembered, or perhaps she was just more sensitized, her body still humming from Coco’s mouth. The feeling of being filled so completely, in this vulnerable position, stole the breath from her lungs.
He didn’t pause. He set a deep, punishing rhythm from the first stroke, each drive pushing a choked gasp from her throat. This wasn’t the performative thrusting from before. This was raw, efficient, and intensely focused. His hands on her hips were anchors, controlling her, pulling her back onto him with every inward push.
The lounge dissolved into a symphony of flesh. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin—from her own coupling, from Coco’s enthusiastic bouncing, from Winter’s precise riding. The low groans of the men, the sharp, bitten-off cries and encouraging moans from the women. The bass from the club was just a foundation now, a heartbeat under their shared chaos.
Weiss’s world narrowed to the heat building where their bodies joined, to the strain in her arms, to the blinding pleasure-pain of each deep stroke. Her silver hair swung forward, a curtain hiding her face. She was grateful. She couldn’t control her expressions, the way her mouth hung open, saliva slicking her lips.
“F-faster,” she heard herself rasp, the plea torn from her.
He obeyed, his pace intensifying. His thumbs dug into the dimples of her lower back. A grunt escaped him, the first real sound she’d heard from him, low and ragged. It thrilled her somehow, cracking his silent façade.
“Yeah, just like that,” Coco moaned from nearby, her voice riding the same rhythm. “Don’t you dare slow down.”
Ruby was chanting a breathless, “Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh,” punctuated by sharp, happy squeals.
Winter was silent, but her breathing was audible—a controlled, heavy in-and-out that matched the relentless pace of her hips.
The coil inside Weiss, which had never fully unwound, wound tighter again, a screaming pressure. It was too much. The sensations from before, the voyeuristic thrill, the illicit depth of this, the sheer physical force of the man moving inside her—it all converged. Her composure shattered.
She came with a broken, sobbing scream, her back arching violently, her vision whiting out at the edges. Her internal muscles clamped around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.
That seemed to be his breaking point. With a final, deep thrust that held her locked in place, he buried himself to the hilt. She felt the pulse of him through the latex, a rhythmic throbbing that mirrored the fading waves of her own climax. His hands gripped her hips like vices, holding her there as they both shuddered through the aftershocks.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing, the sticky-sweet smell of sex thick in the air, and the distant, oblivious pulse of the club.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. The loss of him felt profound. Weiss’s arms gave way and she collapsed forward onto the couch, her cheek pressed against the cool, damp leather. She couldn’t move.
She heard the soft sound of him disposing of the condom, the rustle of clothing. A moment later, a clean, folded handkerchief—plain white cotton—was placed on the couch next to her head. Then, a gentle hand touched the crown of her hair, a brief, almost comforting contact.
When she finally had the strength to lift her head and look, he was gone. All of them were. The strippers had vanished as silently as they’d appeared, leaving only the four women in various states of undress and exhaustion in the ravaged VIP lounge.
Coco was sprawled on her back on the other couch, one arm flung over her eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Winter was re-buttoning her shirt with methodical precision, though her hands trembled slightly. Ruby was curled in a contented ball, a dazed, blissful smile on her face.
No one spoke. The neon light flickered, casting jumping shadows over the evidence of their collective ruin.
Coco was the first to break the silence. She let out a long, slow breath that was almost a laugh. “Well,” she said, her voice hoarse. “That’s one way to send off a bride.”
Weiss closed her eyes. She could still feel the ghost of his hands on her hips, the ache deep inside. The handkerchessat beside her, a stark white anomaly in the dark, sweaty room. She picked it up. It was monogrammed. A single, elegant ‘R’.
Her breath hitched.
Ren. Her fiancé Jaune’s best friend. The quiet, graceful man who always seemed to be observing from the periphery at parties. She knew that monogram. She’d seen it on other handkerchiefs.
The pieces clicked together with a cold, devastating certainty. The calm amber eyes behind the mask. The surprising gentleness. The focused, knowing intensity. It hadn’t been a stranger at all.
A laugh bubbled up in her throat, edged with hysteria. She clutched the cotton square in her fist.
“What?” Coco asked, lifting her arm to look over.
Weiss just shook her head, the laugh dying into a shaky exhale. She tucked the handkerchief under her thigh, hiding it. A secret within a secret. The ultimate scandal wasn’t what she’d done, but with whom.
And the terrifying, exhilarating part was, even knowing, she wasn’t sorry. Not even a little bit.