Chapter 11: The Morning Possession
The glass was cold, even through the lubricant. Tahir stared at it, the absurd, veined sculpture jutting from the leather harness around Tanishka’s hips. The pill he’d dry-swallowed in the hallway was a tiny, ticking furnace in his gut, its heat beginning to spread, blurring the sharp edges of his humiliation into something softer, more malleable.
“On your knees,” Tanishka said, her voice not a command but a simple expectation.
The fabric of his trousers was rough against the plush bedroom rug. He knelt. The city lights glowed beyond the window, a distant grid of normalcy. Up close, the harness smelled of new leather. The glass dildo caught the low light, slick and formidable.
“Open,” she said.
He parted his lips. She guided the head of the glass toy to his mouth. It was cool, smooth, tasteless except for the faint bitterness of the lube. “Wet it,” she instructed. “Get it nice and slippery for your ass.”
The chemical warmth in his veins co-operated, dissolving his revulsion. He closed his lips around the glass and sucked, his tongue circling the bulbous head. A low, performative groan vibrated in his chest. He was hardening in his pants, his own arousal a traitorous echo to the submission.
“Good,” she purred, her fingers tracing his jaw. “You look pretty like this. On your knees, sucking my cock.” She pulled the toy from his mouth with a soft pop. “Now. Take your clothes off. Slowly. I want to see you.”
He stood on unsteady legs. His fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, the button of his trousers. He pushed everything down, stepping out of the pooled fabric, then pulled his shirt over his head. The air-conditioned room raised goosebumps on his skin. He was fully erect now, his cock straining upwards, aching. The drug made his sensitivity feel heightened, each brush of air a whisper.
“Turn around,” she said. “Bend over the bed. Hands flat.”
He complied, bracing himself against the duvet. The position was one of utter vulnerability. He heard the slick sound of her adding more lube, then the cold, firm pressure of the glass tip against him.
“Relax,” she murmured, a hand steadying his hip. “Or this will hurt.”
He tried. He exhaled, and she pushed. The intrusion was slow, inexorable, a stretching burn that made him gasp. It was too much, then it wasn’t. The pill’s influence transformed the pain into a deep, filling pressure, a shameful completion. He groaned into the bedspread as she slid deeper, until the harness was pressed against his buttocks.
“See?” she whispered, her body leaning over his back, her breasts against his skin. “You can take it all. You were built for this. To be used.”
She began to move. Short, testing strokes at first, then longer, smoother ones. The glass was unforgiving, a brutal piston. Each thrust shoved him forward against the bed. There was no escaping the sensation, the profound, degrading fullness. She set a rhythm, one hand on his hip, the other clutching his shoulder.
“You like this, don’t you?” she breathed into his ear. “You like having your ass fucked while your wife sleeps down the hall. Tell me you like it.”
“I… I like it,” he grunted, the words forced out between thrusts.
“Louder.”
“I like it!” The admission echoed in the room, a stain on the air.
“Your tight little ass is mine,” she chanted, her movements becoming faster, harder. The harness slapped against his skin with a wet, rhythmic smack. “I own every hole. I own you. You’re just a set of openings for me to fill.”
The violation was absolute. The chemical in his blood translated the brutal penetration into a perverse, mounting pleasure. His cock, trapped beneath him, rubbed against the bedspread with every jolt. A tight, coiling tension built low in his belly, unrelated to the assault on his body, yet entirely because of it. He was panting, drooling slightly onto Janvi’s duvet.
Tanishka’s breathing grew ragged. “I’m going to come,” she hissed, her thrusts becoming erratic, frantic. “I’m going to come fucking you in the ass.” She buried the glass deep and held it there, her body trembling against his back. A raw, guttural cry tore from her throat as she climaxed, her fingers digging into his flesh hard enough to bruise.
She stayed lodged inside him for a long moment, then pulled out slowly. The sudden emptiness felt vast and wrong. He remained bent over, shuddering.
“On the bed. On your back,” she said, her voice husky as she unhooked the harness and let it fall to the floor.
He rolled over. His own need was a screaming fist of agony. She looked down at him, her eyes dark with spent passion and unchallenged power. She climbed over him, straddling his hips, but instead of taking him inside her, she lowered her body, bringing her soaked cunt to his mouth.
“Clean me,” she said, settling her weight over his face. “I’m messy.”
He didn’t hesitate. He lifted his head and buried his tongue in her. She was swollen, dripping, her taste a complex mix of her own arousal and the sterile lube. He ate her with a frantic, starving intensity, his nose pressed against her, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her in place. She ground herself against his mouth, her moans low and satisfied. She came again, quickly, her thighs clamping against his head as she shook.
When she finally lifted herself off, she was smiling. She wiped his wet mouth with her thumb. “Now fuck me,” she said. “I want to feel you come inside this pussy you just ate. I want to feel it drip out of me tomorrow.”
She guided him into her, sinking down onto his throbbing cock with a luxurious sigh. She rode him slowly, torturously, her inner muscles clenching and fluttering around him. The combined sensations—the residual stretch from the glass, the taste of her still on his lips, the slick heat enveloping him—drove him to the edge in minutes.
“Come on,” she whispered, leaning forward to bite his earlobe. “Fill me up. Do your job. Plant your seed, you pathetic fuck.”
Her words were the final trigger. His orgasm ripped through him with a violence that blurred his vision. He arched beneath her, a broken sound tearing from his throat as he emptied himself in deep, pulsing jets. She milked him through it, her hips making small, circular motions until he was spent and soft inside her.
She collapsed beside him, one leg thrown possessively over his. Almost immediately, her breathing evened out into sleep.
Tahir lay in the dark, the chemical aftermath a leaden blanket. The physical satiation was there, a numb heaviness in his limbs. But beneath it, in a place the pill couldn’t touch, a new feeling was crystallizing. It wasn’t guilt. Guilt had been scorched away by relentless use. It was colder. Harder. It was a sort of rabid ownership.
This is my bed, the thought came, stark and clear. My prison. My addiction. And she is the warden. But the warden lives in the prison, too.
He fell into a black, dreamless sleep.
Dawn came as a grey seep around the blackout blinds. Tahir woke not to an alarm, but to the familiar, low throb of renewed need in his blood. The pills never truly wore off; they just cycled from satiation to craving. Tanishka was asleep, her back to him, the sheet tangled around her waist. The scent of their night—sex, sweat, leather, lube—was embedded in the very air.
He looked at the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her hip. In the flat morning light, she wasn’t a demon or a goddess. She was a woman in his bed. A woman who had taken everything. And the hunger he felt wasn’t just for her body; it was a hunger to reclaim something, anything, even if it was just the illusion of control within this four-walled hell.
He moved silently. He slid down the bed, the cool sheets whispering against his skin. He hooked his hands under her knee and her shoulder, rolling her gently onto her back. She murmured, still asleep. He parted her thighs.
The smell of sex was potent here. She was still wet from him, her folds slightly swollen. He lowered his face and pressed his mouth to her.
He didn’t start gently. He licked her with a broad, flat stroke, gathering the mixed fluids. He tasted himself, the metallic bitterness of his own spend, and beneath it, the darker, muskier essence of her. He groaned against her, the vibration making her twitch. He parted her with his thumbs and speared his tongue inside, fucking her with it, his nose grinding against her clit.
She woke with a sharp intake of breath, her body jolting. “Wha—?”
He didn’t let her speak. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, pinning her in place, and ate her with a desperate, sloppy hunger. His tongue lashed at her clit, circled it, then dove deep again. It was claiming. It was animal. It was his. He was marking the territory she had stolen.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, her hands flying to his hair. Not to guide him, but to clutch, her fingers tightening in shock and sudden, intense pleasure. “Tahir… yes… right there…”
He redoubled his efforts, sucking her clit into his mouth, applying a rhythmic pressure that had her heels digging into his back. Her hips began to buck against his face, but he held her firm, his grip unyielding. He was devouring her. The helpless, mewling sounds she made were a fuel. She came abruptly, her back bowing off the bed, a choked cry ripping from her throat as she shuddered against his mouth.
He didn’t stop. He lapped at her through the tremors, drinking her in, until she was pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive. “Stop… ah… too much…”
He released her, crawling up her body. His face was wet, glistening. He looked down at her, her eyes wide, her lips parted, hair splayed across Janvi’s pillow. He saw not a conqueror, but a woman still gasping from an unexpected assault.
He pushed her knees up towards her chest, spreading her wide. He was violently hard. He positioned himself and drove into her in one brutal, deep stroke.
She cried out, her nails raking down his arms. He was still thick from the lingering effects of the previous night, and she was tight, clenching around him.
“This is my bed,” he growled, the words raw and guttural. He began to fuck her, not with the frenzied pace of the drug, but with a slow, deep, possessive rhythm. Each thrust was a punctuation mark. “You sleep in it. You eat in it. You fucking breathe in it. But it’s mine.” He pistoned into her, the force driving her up the bed. “You’re in my city. In my home. In my wife’s room. You’re mine for this week. Say it.”
Her eyes glazed, lost in the overwhelming sensation. “I’m… I’m yours…”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours!” she moaned, her head thrashing side to side.
“Fucking right you are.” He shifted, hooking her legs over his shoulders, deepening the angle impossibly. He pounded into her, the headboard slamming against the wall with a steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump. The sound was obscenely loud in the morning quiet. He didn’t care. “This cunt is mine. This ass is mine. You’re a vessel. My vessel. And I’ll fill you when and how I want.”
“Yes! God, yes! Fuck me, Tahir, fuck me hard! I’m your vessel! I’m your fucking slut!” Her cries were uninhibited, meeting his aggression with a wild surrender. She came again, her internal muscles fluttering around him like a frantic heartbeat.
It pushed him over. With a final, earth-shaking thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and roared as he came. It felt different—not a release of tension, but an act of branding. He pulsed inside her, claiming the space he was forced to occupy. He collapsed on her, spent, the sweat cooling on their skin.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then, a different sound. A soft, metallic rattle. A key in the main penthouse door.
Tanishka stiffened beneath him. Tahir froze.
Quiet footsteps crossed the living room. They stopped. Then, the footsteps approached, coming down the hallway toward the master bedroom. They were light, familiar.
Janvi.
The door was unlocked.
The footsteps paused right outside. Tahir held his breath, his softening cock still inside Tanishka. He could see the door handle. It didn’t turn.
A soft, papery sound. Something being slid under the door.
Then the footsteps receded, back down the hall, towards the guest wing. A few moments later, the faint sound of the guest suite door closing.
Tahir slowly pulled out of Tanishka and rolled off her. They both stared at the white rectangle on the floor. An envelope.
Tanishka recovered first, a smirk pulling at her sore mouth. “Maybe it’s a love note.” She got out of bed, utterly naked, and walked over to pick it up. She tore it open, extracted a single sheet of elegant stationery. She scanned it, her smirk fading into something unreadable. She tossed it onto the bed beside Tahir.
“It’s a schedule,” she said flatly.
Tahir picked it up. Janvi’s neat, graceful handwriting.
Tahir,
To ensure consistency and minimize disruption, here is the proposed schedule for the coming days.
- 7:00 AM: Private time for conception efforts in master suite.
- 8:00-9:00 AM: I will take Arjun to the park or playroom. Kitchen/bathroom free for your use.
- 12:00 PM: Lunch. I will leave a platter in the kitchen.
- 2:00-4:00 PM: Second recommended conception window. I will take Arjun for his nap in the guest wing.
- 7:00 PM: Dinner. I will dine with Arjun in his room.
- 9:00 PM: Final daily effort. I will ensure we are retired by then.
Please adjust as necessary. I have ordered more of the required supplements. They are in the closet.
-J
It was a logistical memo. A fucking itinerary for his adultery. Calm, precise, and utterly insane.
Tanishka laughed, a short, sharp sound. “She’s systematizing it. Making it efficient. The perfect corporate wife.” She looked at Tahir, her eyes glittering. “She’s more fucking twisted than I am.”
Tahir felt the coldness inside him spread. Janvi wasn’t breaking. She was adapting. She was building a horrifying, functional architecture around the rot. His possessive fury from moments ago felt childish, a tempest in a jar she had already neatly sealed and labelled.
The door to his cage, he realized, wasn’t locked by Tanishka anymore. It was being dutifully, politely held shut by the ghost of his wife.
It was being dutifully, politely held shut by the ghost of his wife.
The schedule became law. A new blister pack arrived with the groceries, left on the kitchen island by Janvi without comment. These pills were a deeper, more electric blue, almost indigo, sealed in foil that felt thicker. Tahir took one at 6:55 AM, dry, his throat constricting around it. The effect was not a warmth this time, but a swift, chemical lightning strike to the base of his skull. The world didn’t blur; it sharpened with a terrifying, singular focus. Every sound was the rustle of Tanishka’s sheets. Every scent was her perfume layered over the musk of her body. The image of Janvi’s handwriting on that schedule dissolved into static. Only Tanishka’s form held any definition, any meaning.
He found her in the shower, water sluicing over her shoulders. He stepped in, still dressed in his pajama bottoms. The water soaked the cotton, plastering it to his skin. He didn’t speak. He turned her, pressed her against the cold tile, and yanked the soaked fabric down just enough to free himself. He entered her in one frantic motion, the water cascading over them, making her slicker, the slide easier. He fucked her with a narrow, grinding intensity, his eyes fixed on the space where her neck met her shoulder. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t grope. He just pistoned into her, a machine executing its core function. She came quickly, surprised by the violent directness, her cries echoing off the glass. He followed, spilling into her with a shudder that felt more like a system purge than release. He pulled out, adjusted his soaked pajamas, and left the shower without a word. He was dressed and in his study by 7:20, his wet hair dripping onto his collar, his body humming with the new, cleaner drug. He couldn’t have told you what color the walls were.
At 2:02 PM, the compulsion returned, a physical itch behind his eyes. He found her sunning herself on the balcony lounger, a towel beneath her, nude. The sun was high, the city sprawled below. He dropped to his knees between her legs, pushed them wider, and buried his face in her. He ate her pussy with a clinical, thorough aggression, his tongue stabbing and circling, his hands pinning her hips to the cushion. She gasped, shielding her eyes from the sun, her body arching. He didn’t stop when she came. He lapped at her, cleaning her, then rose, unzipped his trousers, and fucked her into the lounger, the metal frame scraping a harsh rhythm against the concrete floor. He came silently, his face a mask of intense concentration, as if solving a complex equation. He zipped up and went back inside. The balcony door hissed shut.
Janvi’s schedule was perfect. They never saw her. Only evidence of her: food appearing, clean laundry folded outside the master bedroom door, toys silently removed from the living room floor. Arjun’ laughter was a distant, tinny sound from behind a closed door at the other end of the penthouse. Tahir, riding the sharp, blue high, registered it as irrelevant noise, like traffic from a faraway street. Tanishka was the only signal his brain could receive.
Three days into the new pills, Tanishka found him in the kitchen at dusk. He was staring at the refrigerator, his hand absently rubbing his cock through his trousers. He was hard. He was always hard now, a constant, low-grade alertness. She walked up behind him, pressed her body along his back, and reached around to unzip him. She took his cock in her hand, stroking him slowly.
“My friends are coming over tonight,” she said into his ear, her voice casual. “A little thing. You’ll be good, won’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, the word automatic, his hips pushing faintly into her hand. His mind offered no resistance, no question. If she wanted a party, a party was necessary.
“Janvi,” Tanishka called out, her voice rising but not moving from her spot behind Tahir, her hand still working him. “A heads up.”
A moment later, Janvi appeared in the doorway to the hall. She held a cloth in her hands, wiping them slowly. Her eyes went to Tanishka’s arm wrapped around Tahir’s waist, to the motion of her hand hidden by his body. She did not react. Her face was serene, empty.
“Some friends are swinging by later,” Tanishka said, as if discussing a delivery time. “It might get… loud. And a bit wild. Probably better if you and the little one don’t come out. You’d be embarrassed. Honestly, they can be a lot.”
Janvi’s gaze drifted from Tanishka’s face to Tahir’s profile. He was looking down at the counter, breathing slowly, captivated by the feeling of Tanishka’s fist on his skin. He didn’t look at his wife. Janvi’s lips parted, then closed. She gave a single, slow nod. “Of course,” she said, her voice a dry leaf rustling. “We’ll be quiet. Enjoy your party.”
She turned and disappeared. Tanishka chuckled, a low, vibrating sound against Tahir’s back. “See? So reasonable.” She sped up her strokes, her other hand clawing at his shirt. “Come for me now. I want you empty before they get here. Then the pills will make you ready again.”
He obeyed. He came over her fingers, onto the polished black marble floor, his body stiffening then slumping against her. She wiped her hand on his shirt. “Clean that up,” she said, nodding at the small puddle on the floor, before walking away.
By nine, the penthouse was transformed. The lights were dimmed, bass-heavy music pulsed through the hidden speakers, and the air grew thick with the scent of cannabis, expensive perfume, and anticipation. Tanishka’s friends arrived in a burst of laughter and sharp, glittering energy. Four women, each a variation on Tanishka’s theme: sleek, confident, wearing dresses that were mere whispers of fabric, all sharp angles and knowing smiles. Three men followed, taller, lean, with the casual, predatory ease of those used to being accessories. They moved through the space as if they owned it, pouring drinks from Tahir’s bar, draping themselves over his furniture.
Tahir sat on the large sectional sofa, a fresh, indigo pill working its way through his bloodstream. It felt like his nerves had been dipped in silver, all sensations amplified and directed toward the center of the room where Tanishka held court. She was wearing a dress of liquid black metal that clung to every curve and ended high on her thighs. She was holding a glass of gin, telling a story, her free hand gesturing broadly.
One of the men, with artfully messy hair and a sly grin, caught Tahir’s stare. “So you’re the famous Tahir,” he said, dropping onto the couch beside him. “The man who has our Tanishka so… occupied.”
Tahir didn’t answer. His eyes tracked Tanishka’s moving lips.
The man laughed. “Intense. I get it.” He leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. “She’s a fucking hurricane, isn’t she? You just have to bend, or she snaps you.”
Tanishka glanced over, caught the man talking to Tahir, and her smile widened. She detached from her group and walked over, her hips slicing through the smoky air. She didn’t sit. She simply turned and lowered herself onto Tahir’s lap, her back to his chest, settling into him as if he were a piece of furniture. Her weight, her heat, the scent of her skin obliterated everything else. The music, the voices, the city lights beyond the window—all of it receded into a dull roar.
Her friends watched, their smiles turning proprietary, amused. The women exchanged glances. One of them, a brunette with a razor-sharp bob, winked.
Tanishka leaned her head back against Tahir’s shoulder, tilting her face up toward his. “See? I told them you were devoted.” She took his right hand from where it rested on his own thigh and guided it up, placing it firmly on her breast. The cool, hard metal of her dress was under his palm, then the warm, soft swell of her flesh spilling over the top. “He can’t keep his hands off me,” she announced to the room, not loudly, but clearly. It was part of the performance.
The group laughed, a low, agreeable sound. Conversation resumed, gossip about people Tahir didn’t know, deals, scandals, parties. Tahir’s world had collapsed to the sensory data in his hands. The pill made his touch hyper-sensitive. He could feel the precise texture of the dress, the quickening beat of her heart beneath, the pebble of her nipple hardening against the center of his palm. He squeezed, gently at first, then with more possession. A soft sigh escaped her lips, her body relaxing further into him.
His left hand began to move on its own, drawn down the plane of her stomach, over the slick metal, to the hem of her dress. The chatter around him was a distant hum. The brunette with the bob was watching him, her eyes dark and interested, her cocktail glass poised near her lips. Tanishka shifted slightly, subtly, spreading her legs a fraction where she sat straddling his lap. It was an invitation, a command.
His fingers slipped under the hem. The inside of her thighs was smooth, hot. He traced higher, through the coarse, trimmed hair, and found her wet. Drenched. The potent mix of the drug, the public display, the dominance had already worked on her. He made a low sound in his throat, almost a growl. He didn’t care who saw. The pill didn’t allow for that calculation. It only demanded connection to her.
He began to stroke her, his middle finger circling her clit, his index finger dipping just inside her entrance. She was so slick his movements were silent. She continued her conversation with the man opposite, her voice steady, but her breath hitched once, beautifully. She reached one hand behind her, tangling her fingers in his hair, a gesture that could have been affectionate but was, in truth, an anchor.
“So you’re finally expanding the portfolio into Mumbai?” she asked the man, her tone businesslike.
“If the due diligence checks out,” he replied, his eyes flicking down to where Tahir’s hand was working under her dress, then back to her face with a knowing grin. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full with your own… venture.”
“Mmm,” Tanishka hummed, her hips making a tiny, involuntary rock against Tahir’s fingers. “It’s a very hands-on investment.”
Tahir added a second finger, sliding them deeper into her. He could feel the internal flutters beginning, the tight, rhythmic clenching. She was close. Her friends were watching now, their gossip paused. They weren’t shocked; they were fascinated. This was the entertainment. One of the other men lit a cigarette, his eyes glued to Tanishka’s face, watching the controlled mask begin to fracture.
With his right hand still kneading her breast, Tahir bent his head. He pressed his mouth to the junction of her neck and shoulder, where his possessiveness had focused that first morning on the new pills. He didn’t kiss it. He opened his mouth and sucked, hard. He licked the salt from her skin, then drew the flesh in, biting down just shy of pain.
Tanishka’s sentence cut off. A sharp, shuddering gasp broke from her. Her back arched against him, her hand in his hair clutching violently. “Fuck,” she breathed, the word lost in the music but visible on her lips.
He sucked her breast through the dress, the damp fabric growing warm from his mouth. He worried the nipple with his teeth, his fingers inside her pumping steadily, relentlessly. Her public composure evaporated. Her head lolled back on his shoulder, her eyes closed, mouth open. Her hips were riding his hand in earnest now, a blatant, rhythmic grinding. Her friends watched, smiling, silent. The men watched, rapt.
“She’s going to come,” the brunette whispered, not to anyone, just a statement of fact.
Tanishka came with a strangled, guttural cry, her body seizing against Tahir’s, her inner muscles clamping down on his fingers in a series of fierce, pulsating waves. He held her through it, his mouth still on her breast, his hand soaked. The entire room had watched her climax. The music thumped on.
As the tremors subsided, she was panting, a fine sheen of sweat on her chest. She blinked, coming back to the room, to the faces watching her. A wild, triumphant smile spread across her features. She didn’t look embarrassed. She looked victorious. She slowly, deliberately, reached down and pushed Tahir’s hand away from between her legs. She brought his wet fingers up to her own mouth and sucked them clean, slowly, making eye contact with her grinning friend.
“See?” Tanishka said, her voice hoarse but clear. “Totally devoted.” She then pushed herself off his lap, her legs slightly unsteady. The wet patch on the front of his trousers and the dark, blooming mark on her neck were declarations of war in a conflict only she was fighting. “Now,” she said, smoothing her dress. “Who needs a real drink?”
The party dynamic shifted, charged with a new, visceral electricity. The conversations became louder, more intimate. The space between people shrank. Tahir remained on the couch, the physical need already rebuilding inside him, a urgent pressure the pill stoked back to life in minutes. He watched Tanishka move through her friends, a queen among her court, the vivid hickey on her neck a badge of honor.
The brunette with the sharp bob, the one who had watched so intently, separated from the group. She walked over with a fresh glass of whiskey, holding it out to him. “For you,” she said. “You look like you could use it.”
He took it. He didn’t drink it.
She sat down next to him, not as close as Tanishka had been, but her posture was open, interested. “I’m Alia.” She nodded toward the mark on his neck, a mirror to Tanishka’s. “She really has you, doesn’t she?”
Tahir just looked at her. His silence was not hostile; it was absolute. He had no capacity for conversation. His brain was a loop of sensation and need.
Alia smiled, undeterred. She leaned in a little. “I get it. She’s a drug. The best kind. And from what she says, you’re quite the… enthusiastic participant.” Her eyes dropped to the obvious bulge in his trousers. “The little pills help, I hear.”
His hand tightened on the glass. A warning bell tried to ring somewhere, a memory of Janvi’s schedule, of a life before this all-consuming blue static. It was smothered instantly.
“Don’t worry,” Alia said, her voice dropping. “Your secret’s safe. We’re all here for the same thing. To feel something that fucking real.” She looked over at Tanishka, who was now whispering something to one of the other men, her hand on his arm. “She’s sharing the wealth tonight. In spirit.”
Tanishka caught Alia’s look. Her expression didn’t change, but she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Permission. Or a challenge.
Alia placed her hand on Tahir’s thigh, high up. “She won’t mind,” she murmured. “Not really. It’s all part of the game.”
Before Tahir could process the words, before the drug could even formulate a response to this new variable, Tanishka’s voice cut across the room, sharp and clear. “Alia. Don’t be greedy. He’s not on the menu for guests. He’s the main course, and I’m not done with my dinner.”
Alia removed her hand, smiling easily, as if caught reaching for a canapé before the hostess. “Of course. Sorry, T.”
Tanishka strode over, the magnetic center of the room pulling with her. She stood before Tahir, looking down at him. The party chatter dimmed again, attention returning to them. “Stand up,” she said.
He stood. The room swayed slightly, a cocktail of drugs, alcohol, and relentless arousal.
“You’re mine,” she said, not quietly. It was a reaffirmation for the audience. She placed her hands on his chest, then pushed him, walking him backwards until his legs hit the large, low coffee table made of reclaimed teak. “On the table. On your back.”
He obeyed. The wood was hard and cool against his spine. He lay there, looking up at the recessed lights in the ceiling, exposed. The music pulsed. He heard a laugh, a glass clink. Shadows of people moved at the edges of his vision.
Tanishka looked at her friends, a wicked smile playing on her lips.