Luka didn’t appear fazed. Or even to notice. His attention was entirely on me.
He worked me harder, every movement calculated, every shift dragging me closer to the edge. The pressure built fast. My body tightened, bracing for the inevitable collapse—the loss of control, the moment the room would watch me come apart. The crest rose, relentless and unstoppable.
But Luka stopped.
Just like that. He pulled out. The heat vanished, replaced by cold air and a hollow ache. My body jerked, chasing the sensation that wasn’t there, the need crashing through me so hard it stole my breath.
“Say it again,” he said softly. The words barely carried over the bass.
Tears burned my eyes—rage, want, frustration, all tangled together. “I’m yours,” I whispered, my voice raw.
He let the pause stretch, the silence a vise. Then he reached into the shadow behind the bench and brought something into the light—chrome, humming, unmistakable.
He pressed it to my clit. The vibration hit high and sharp, my body reared, trying to lift off the bench.
I cried out, the sound torn straight from my throat.
“Don’t move,” Luka commanded. “Keep those legs spread, no matter what you feel. Or I stop.”
The warning locked my muscles harder than any restraint.
He increased the pressure. The world narrowed instantly—masks and leather and bodies dissolving into heat and noise and the unbearable focus of sensation. Somewhere close, someone sucked in a breath. A low moan echoed from the benches.
But nothing mattered except Luka’s voice.
“All you have to do is say the word,” he murmured, close enough that the syllables vibrated through my jaw. “I’ll take the collar off. You’ll have all of them. Hands, mouths, cocks—anything you want. No limits.” His breath brushed my cheek. “That’s what you really want, isn’t it?”
I crushed the steel in my grip. My fingers tingled. “No,” I forced out, the word ripped raw as the vibration climbed higher, driving straight through every defense my body had left.
The edge hit fast.
Too fast.
I broke on a sob instead of a plea.
Luka held me there, right at the threshold. Then he lifted the toy away.
The loss slammed through me. Every cell in my body shrieked for the pressure to come back, for any friction at all, but nothing did. I was left on the bench, legs spread wide, dripping and exposed, the toy’s ghost still vibrating somewhere inside my bones.
“Why?” he demanded, the word hard enough to bruise. He gestured toward the watching crowd. “No one here would deny you. You’d be worshipped, devoured, ruined in every way you crave.” His gaze cut back to mine. “But you still wantme?”
I couldn’t swallow. The words whiplashed inside my chest. “Yes.” I nearly sobbed it. “Why would I want anyone else?”
Luka went still. Utterly, frighteningly still. The mask erased his expression, his hand motionless against my thigh. The chrome toy, glinting in the pit’s lattice of light, hovered just out of contact. The entire room hung in the balance—me, the gallery, even the air.
For one awful second, I thought he’d leave me there—spread open and shaking, a ruined centerpiece for the club’s consumption.
Then Luka’s breath eased out, slow and ragged. And he pressed the toy back against me.
The vibration was a bullet—immediate and obliterating. My body seized. I shrieked, loud and unfiltered. Luka bracketed my jaw with his gloved hand, forcing my face up, mouth open for every noise I couldn’t contain.
The first orgasm hit like a fucking tsunami. My vision shattered along the edges, black and white and nothing in between. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I could only ride the tremor of it as it tore through me.
But Luka didn’t pull away. He turned the dial higher.
The oversensitivity hit instantly. I tried to twist away, but he slammed a palm against my inner thigh and held me open, forcing me to take every nerve-shredding second. I choked on a scream.
Around the pit, the crowd reacted—ragged inhales, low groans, the slick shuffle of bodies shifting to get a better view.