Fill Me by Michelle Hazen (books to read in a lifetime .txt) 📕

I stop just off-stage, the leather strings of the whip brushing the black leather pants I just changed into. I’m vividly sober. For our band’s shows, I love to ride the music and a buzz at the same time, but for this, it would be unforgivable to be anything less than in perfect control of myself. Of my senses. Of my judgment.

I need all of it to create this performance; to best serve her.

The staff at this BDSM club have prepared her perfectly for me. A single scrap of panties is her only clothing. Straps wrap each bare ankle, firm but not biting her flesh, with a few extra inches of space so she can writhe for me, her legs spread wide by the shape of the table. Strawberry-blond hair pools beneath her head and pours off the edge of the black leather padding.

This particular device has a crosspiece, more of a T than a St. Andrew’s Cross. It keeps her arms stretched straight out to each side, her breasts vulnerable and waiting for whatever I choose to impose upon them.

The lights of the stage lay golden on her skin and I can tell from the clenching of her thigh muscles that she’s already dampening from the gaze of the crowd. The stage is only three feet tall, and any one of the audience could climb up and take advantage of her position. She knows it, feeds on it. If I don’t go out there, someone might.

Arousal rides the air in this place like a bass beat. I allow the anticipation to wind tighter, in me and all my fellow club-goers. When it’s time to mount the stage, I’ll know, because this is exactly my place.

That is what Jera is missing.

Not the whips, or the ropes. My friend is made for gentleness and adoration, not domination. But I wish with a fervency that tightens my throat that she could feel the freedom I’ve found in this room. There’s safety here, in the arms and eyes of everyone who came here seeking others like them. In the understanding that sexuality isn’t always pretty, but it’s always beautiful.

I’ve never taken Jera to bed, but I could tell her exactly what she needs. It would only take one word.

Trust.

It’s the faith that your partner will know what you need. It’s the comfort to let go and not worry about what you look like in your moment of ultimate pleasure. It’s the affirmation that you’ve been there together before. An orgasm—a good one—is something you learn.

I swallow, sweat already slicking my skin from knowing that eyes are about to be watching me, from the familiar weight of the whip in my palm. My world is dark and lovely, and walled firmly off from Jera’s. I don’t know how to help her find a club of her own people the way I found mine. 

The wood floor creaks beneath my boots as I shift my weight, lashing the whip restlessly against my thigh.

On stage, Sabrina arches a little, her breasts shifting as her breaths go short. Needy.

Now. 

I step up and pause so she can hear the creak of the first stair. She gulps down air, and I stride across the stage and into the lights. Music starts, deep and thumping, but not loud enough to spoil the sounds of her cries. Of her begging, if I choose.

Without looking at my audience, I extend an arm, my tattoos stark in the spotlight as I drag the strands of the whip up her leg, letting them slip between her forcibly spread thighs. The ink on my back is a gnarled, ancient tree, and the audience of the underground club gasps when they see it.

Maybe they didn’t recognize me until then. Everything above my cheekbones is concealed behind a simple black mask, the kind Jax’s mom would probably wear to some fundraising masquerade ball. But here, no one’s looking to support a charity. They’re looking to witness the pleasure my unimpeded lips and tongue are about to donate to Sabrina.

For the best of causes, of course.

Her pretty green eyes widen when I turn my attention to her. Maybe she didn’t realize it would be me, though Kigh said he’d talk to her when I agreed to fill in for him tonight. Her whole body clenches, hands huddling into fists above the leather cuffs that immobilize her wrists.

“What are you going to do to me?” she whispers.

I move so fast she flinches, locking the handle of the whip across her throat. She doesn’t like breathplay, so I press it up against her jaw, leaving her windpipe unimpeded.

Bending until she can feel my breath on her face, I murmur in her ear, “Safe word, Sabrina?”

“Red,” she says, so only I can hear.

“Okay?” I add, because normally we’d talk about the scene beforehand, reiterate her hard and soft boundaries. Not that we haven’t done that before, but if this wasn’t a last-minute fill in, we’d have done it tonight before the staff restrained her on this stage.

She nods vigorously, the movement quick and almost scared, though that’s probably for the benefit of the crowd. I release her and turn. Tightening my body, I can practically feel the thorny bite of the sharp designs clawing at the edges of my abs. My name is flowing through the room on dozens of sets of lips, the awed whispers the BDSM club equivalent of a standing ovation.

The stage here isn’t my domain. It’s seen my cock before, and I’ve worked every whip in the place under these lights, but I’m a private room Dom. I joined this club because this is where the girls come to find me when they can’t find satisfaction anywhere else. When they’re afraid to ask for what they really want. When they need it harder than any other man has given it to them, but they need it delivered so they can still walk out of this place and back into their sensible pumps and picture-laden office walls without a visit to the hospital in between.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to work a crowd.

I flick my eyes over them once. Cold and dismissive, as if they displease me.

They don’t aim the lights to blind here, because audience/stage participation is key to some of the shows we offer behind our members-only locked doors. So I can see all the couples arrayed on couches in the upward-sloping room. Down in front, there’s a broad-shouldered Dom with ebony skin and a gorgeous brunette on a leash. He’s watching Sabrina hungrily despite the sub curled on the couch beside him.

Turning, I hover the whip above Sabrina, the straps tickling her nipples as they sway back and forth through the air.

“You’d better let me go,” she says, fear shaky behind the thin bravado in her tone. “If my husband finds out what you’re doing to me, he’ll kill you.”

I don’t speak. The absent husband is always part of her role, though I don’t know if he’s real or just part of her fantasy. I snap the whip across her ribs.

Harsh and fast, red swells immediately in its path and Sabrina gasps. I flatten one hand between her hip bones, the edge of my palm brushing the fragile black lace of her thong: the only clothing I allowed her to keep. Bearing down, I let her feel how my hand controls her as I slap the whip over the top of one thigh, then the other. I pull my hand away and snap the skin beneath before it has a chance to cool, dangerously close to her panty line.

She shrieks and struggles against her bonds. “Don’t!” she cries out breathlessly. “If you mark me, my husband will know someone else has touched me.”

I raise an eyebrow and shift back a little so the audience can watch as I curl a finger and run my knuckle down the front of her tiny panties. The heat of her flushes through the fabric and though the audience can’t see how wet it is, they know.

I know. My dick surges.

Sabrina blushes and turns her face away as I rub my knuckle back and forth, teasing her clit in clear view of the rest of the room.

I surge upward and catch her chin in my hand. She struggles fiercely this time, her arms and legs all tied down but her teeth clenched against me as I bruise her lips with mine. I fight my way into her mouth, forcing her to accept my tongue. As soon as I do, she melts, worshipping my lips and tongue as sweetly as I’ve ever been serviced. I harden further as she gives in.

Usually, I don’t talk on stage, but the triumph of possession heats my blood and I growl, “Your husband doesn’t fuck you the way I do.”

I snap the whip just below her breast. Lightly, just enough to make her arch up for more. She does, whimpering, and I give her what she needs with a slash across both nipples. They flush rosy with the attention and I settle into a rhythm, flogging her breasts and then her belly, licking all around the edges of her tiny panties.

Sabrina moans and whimpers, pleads with me, cries out. She drinks in the attention, every part of her alive and crying for more.

The slap of skin against skin breaks the breathless silence between lashes of my whip. Someone is getting a spanking. Maybe a sub got caught eying me too closely, or maybe a master just got too wound up by the show and needed