Some kinds of loneliness were better than others.
The girls drove far out of Richmond, out into Goochland County where the horses and the rich people lived. Country roads were shit for tailing, so Cal had to stay farther behind than he’d like, following the unblinking red eyes of taillights through the bends and warps of the road, wondering where the fuck these ballerinas were headed. And then suddenly there were no taillights, just the trees in the dark, and Cal had to reverse to see what he’d missed: a narrow road turning sharply off the small highway, disappearing into the dark like a path into fairyland.
He killed his headlights, rolled down the windows again, and crept up the road. His eyes adjusted to the dark fast enough, to where he could see the individual trees and the black glint of the James River between their branches. The twist and rise of the road—
Awareness prickled on the back of his neck, and with a cold feeling in his gut, he realized he knew this place. It was different in the dark, different with the war ghosts in his mind, but the minute he cleared the rise and saw the sprawling, elegant profile of it, he knew.
Persepolis.
Shit.
He parked the car at the edge of the lot, killing the engine after confirming the two hybrids were indeed there. And sure enough, he could see the slender shadows of the girls down by the entrance of the building, gliding like swans into the door, the moonlight catching the shine of slipper-silk as they moved. And the idea of all those lithe bodies wearing their pointe shoes into Persepolis stirred up an uncomfortable amount of heat in his blood. The idea of Tamsin, long legs wrapped in ribbons, up on her toes and bent over a bench with her pussy exposed—shit. Shit.
She’s nineteen, he thought angrily to himself. A child. Stop it.
But it was hard to stop. Especially with Persepolis in full view.
He rubbed at his forehead, trying to remember the plan, trying to ignore the blood flowing to his groin without his permission. The problem was that the plan had gotten a lot more complicated just now, because Persepolis wasn’t the bar or house party he’d been expecting. Persepolis was the kind of place where people with lots of money and specific interests went to play. Whips and chains, that kind of shit. Cal had done a fair amount of work for them over the last four years, mostly background checks for new members, and so he knew very well what went on inside.
Which meant that he was going to have to tell Purkiss that his daughter was sneaking off at night to get beaten and fucked by strangers. Or maybe she was doing the beating. Either way, he didn’t think Purkiss would take it well.
Still, he had a job to do and he could still follow the plan. Take a few pictures of the cars outside, go home and stroke himself in the shower thinking of how those pointe shoes would feel on his back as he buried his face in some young pussy.
Fuck.
Take those pictures and go home, Cal.
And yet he was getting out of the car. Walking down the winding path to the door without his camera. Nodding at the doorman who recognized him immediately. Stepping inside the wide windowed bar area where those not at play drank and laughed and talked.
Persepolis was too cautious to serve minors, which meant that the girls wouldn’t be here. No, they’d be downstairs in the public playroom. Although, since they were far too young to be members, they must be guests, and there was a chance that whoever they were a guest of, he or she would have them in a private playroom.
Cal tried to ignore the knot of disappointment the thought tied in him. It had nothing to do with wanting to see those ballerinas fucking en pointe, those sleek, young bodies at work. Nothing to do with wanting to see Tamsin’s pert tits or high, round ass.
Nothing to do with the thought of all twelve girls in one room, licking and twisting and rubbing.
Sure. Because he could lie to himself, but he couldn’t lie to his cock. And his cock remembered exactly how long it’d been since it’d been inside a woman. Too fucking long.
He walked down the floating staircase into the airy concrete and glass playroom, taking care to stay in the shadows as he did. It wasn’t hard—a woman was whipping a man on stage and the spotlights were on her, and darkness spilled in from outside like water. It was as he moved undetected around the back of the room that he saw them. Waiting by the stage in their shoes, literal dancers in the wings.
He took a seat.
The first show ended fast enough, applause and wolf whistles echoing through the room, and then a woman he recognized took the stage—Mistress Hell, a half-Persian Domme with an affinity for young women and riding crops. Cal had done her background check four years ago; in real life, she owned a pricey graphic design firm and volunteered twice a month at a food shelter. But at Persepolis she was Hell embodied, and God help the little submissives she took under her cruel wing.
And tonight, there appeared to be twelve of them.
The girls mounted the stage behind Mistress Hell. In the bright lights, a person could see every small curve and dip of their bodies underneath their thin leotards; Cal had to stifle a groan when he realized he could see the dark buttons of their nipples through the fabric. They’d added small tutus to their outfits, and when Mistress Hell snapped her fingers, they all dropped to their knees facing away from the crowd. She snapped again, and they dropped to their hands, on all fours now.
Another snap and they went down even farther, foreheads on the floor, tulle framing each perfect ass. It made for a spectacular sight, all those toned legs and asses in every shade of brown and black and beige, a rainbow of smooth skin raised over those delicately-laced pointe shoes, and Cal had to shift in his seat to allow for his thickening cock. He never thought he’d get off on this kind of shit, but as Mistress Hell began laying into them with a riding crop, he began to see the appeal. All that firm flesh, just offered up, getting flushed and angry under the crop. And—ah, fuck—the wet spots growing on the leotards as the girls got hot from it. They squealed and squirmed, wiggling at Mistress Hell until she’d give them the crop to rub against, and rub against it they would, like needy little kittens.
He wanted to be the one to rub them where they were wet, the one to make those tight asses glow with heat. He wanted to walk up and down the row of those ballerinas and take turns with each one of them. Lick them from clit to puckered hole. Fuck them, going from one to the other to the other, dipping inside every single cunt. He wanted to paint all their asses with his semen.
He ground the heel of his palm against his erection, desperate to relieve the ache there.