Everywhere I looked, boundaries were already gone—strangers touching like they belonged to each other, mouths dragging over collarbones, teeth catching, hands gripping hard enough to leave marks. Need moved through the room like weather.
The shock hit late, crawling up my spine.
No one here was flirting. No one was asking.
They were taking. Offering. Consenting without words.
And no one looked ashamed.
A tremor moved through me—half alarm, half something darker. I wanted to stare. I wanted to run. I wanted to fall to my knees and see what Luka would do to me here.
Luka moved us deeper into the crowd, his hand firm at the back of my neck. We cut through bodies like a blade through water, the heat and urgency thickening with every step.
Now that I’d seen the marble-gloss version of myself—collared, anonymous, stripped of consequence—something wild slipped its leash inside me. No one here knew the boardroom version of me. My posture shifted, my spine loosening, my body leaning into the heat and proximity instead of resisting it. Ididn’t look away when we passed an alcove where a woman strained against overhead restraints, her masked head tipped back as the hooded men around her worked her into helpless moans.
I absorbed it, let it move through me. A sharp pulse tightened my breasts against the corset, the friction sudden and electric.
Ahead, a small crowd ringed a sunken space in the center of the floor. Luka steered us toward it.
Mirrored steps descended into a circular enclosure outlined with chrome bars.
Not a lounge. An arena.
I barely had time to take it in before Luka walked me down three mirrored steps that caught every distorted angle of my thighs, the curve of my ass, reflections multiplying and warping as we descended. At the bottom, blood-red vinyl benches circled the space, stitched in jagged seams like exposed muscle.
At the center waited the apparatus.
A complex creature of steel and black leather stood there—narrow, angled, reinforced with rings, straps, and buckles. Every line of it was designed for a single purpose: to showcase a body.
Luka stopped beside it and bent close, lips grazing my ear. “Up.”
The single word punched straight to my core.
I perched on the edge, palms braced against the slick leather. A ripple of awareness moved through me. People were watching.
Above us, masked faces angled down—glossed mouths, bare shoulders, leather and latex catching the light. A silent gallery taking in the new body on display.
Luka hooked my ankle and drew my leg up, planting my stiletto on the lowest rung. “Spread.”
My breath hitched. I opened for him, thighs scissoring apart, and the microskirt sliding high enough to expose the curve of my ass and the thin, already-damp gusset of my thong.
Luka’s hands never lingered—efficient and impersonal. He lifted my arms and draped them over the bench’s upper supports, positioning each limb exactly where he wanted it.
But he didn’t bind me.
“Hold.”
I engaged every muscle to maintain the pose—heels braced, thighs parted, spine stretched by the angle he’d chosen for me.
He was putting me on display. No, not just display—on offer.
The gallery of masked faces ringing the pit didn’t jeer or call out. They observed. Some with open hunger, others with cool, evaluative stillness. No one looked away.
My pulse thudded. Heat surged under the collar—lights, air, bodies, and Luka’s presence at my side—all feeding the same rising fever.
Luka flicked open a pocketknife, quick and casual. The blade caught the light. For a moment, he weighed the knife in his palm, then slipped it under the top edge of my corset. No warning. Just one clean slice.
The boned leather parted, the tension releasing as the laces unspooled and my breasts spilled free.