Rough Exile

I panted, wanting it to go on forever, wanting it to stop, wanting to come.

“Please,” I begged.

I meant to say Ilya’s name, but knew Bron was still in charge, no matter what it looked like to these strangers.

I was crying behind my blindfold, and then I was remembering the hands and mouths and dicks of the boys who’d taken what they wanted from me at that party in high school, and the years after when the word slut had been whispered about me and shouted at me and written on my locker. The pictures and videos that had circulated. The police watching the footage I’d gotten my hands on, groping me with their lecherous gazes, not caring that I’d been drugged, their questions always implying I’d secretly enjoyed it.

“Please what, wifey?” Ilya whispered in my ear.

“Please stop,” I begged. “No more.”

He said something in Russian, and people moved back.

I dropped my arms from behind my head, shaking, hoping I wouldn’t be in trouble for moving out of position.

My feet were cold, and the floor was gritty underfoot.

“You’re a mess,” Bron said quietly.

I nodded. He probably didn’t realize how much of a mess I was.

“You like kissing girls,” he observed.

“Who doesn’t?” I asked, shakily.

When the blindfold came off, I was looking at Ilya’s beard.

“She’s trembling,” Ilya said, tipping my face up so he could study me.

“She needs dick. Come on, beautiful.” Bron detached my leash from the hook above my head and handed it to Ilya.

Naked, I turned, looking for my shoes and my dress. Only then did it compute that I was naked in the middle of a club full of people without so much as a mask to disguise who I was. Sure, there was an NDA, and I wasn’t exactly a celebrity, but there was no saying there weren’t cameras here.

Only a few people were looking our way now that the action was over, but I was sure we’d been the center of attention for a while.

Ilya found my dress and helped me slip it back on, while Bron tracked down my shoes and set them down the right way so I could slip them on my feet. I leaned on Ilya as we went back to the couch. I felt like an over-tightened violin string about to snap and take out someone’s eyeball.

“Can’t we go back to the hotel room?” I asked, not wanting to face the people who’d been touching me. When I glanced over at the couch, though, the four of them had moved elsewhere and were in the middle of a private orgy.

“Did you come when they were touching you?” Ilya demanded.

“No.” Without my permission, a whimper crawled out of my throat.

He glowered at me. “I almost did.”

A hysterical giggle escaped me.

“You should fuck her here and now. Let people know you’re a man.”

“I let other people touch her because you said it would make me look worldly,” Ilya growled. “Now I want to take her home and wash their smell off her. Sharing her with you makes sense, but I’m not doing this again.”

“Letting people see she matters to you is showing weakness.”

“I’m aware.” He strode for the door, with me staggering after him, trying not to overbalance on my high heels and wobbling legs.