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“My dick’s been hard all fucking day,” Mickey chuckles, stepping forward.
I run a hand down my face, taking in the beauty waiting for us. “The whore looks good on her knees,” I say, the corner of my mouth ticking up in amusement. “Don’t you think?”
The only reply I get is an eye roll at the demeaning nickname, as Mick usually calls it. Don’t know why he feels that way when it’s nothing but the truth. She gets paid for sexual services, that’s the literal definition.
My body comes alive as I watch the woman kneeling before us in only her lace underwear. She’s vulnerable, her body a canvas of pale skin and curves. Her hands rest delicately on her thighs, her head bowed. The mask she’s wearing spans across most of her face. It stops just above her lips, and only has holes for her nose, rendering her sightless but aware of our presence.
At our request, she’s wearing some unique earbuds that distort our voices somewhat, but even with those in her ears, she should be able to hear us move around. Her chest rises and falls with a rhythm that speaks to the anticipation charging the air between us.
She sits perfectly still. She’s a good fucking whore, and if she keeps it up, I won’t have much use for her.
Mickey enjoys creating a connection, his own twisted way to reenact the ghost of a past love. It’s kind of fucked up since his ex, Simone, totally ruined him, but I’m not judging. How can I when I crave the kneeling woman’s pain?
Being professional NHL players, we need a place like Cupid’s Court to get our fill. Not only are we faceless here, but it’s also a safe place to act out our needs with women who know what they’re signing up for.
“She’s beautiful,” Mickey rasps, already unbuttoning his shirt.
“She is,” I confirm, removing my suit jacket and shirt before kicking off my shoes and socks, so I’m only wearing my pants.
I walk around the room, trailing my fingers over the assortment of implements hanging on the wall—whips that promise a sting, floggers that offer a thud, paddles designed to leave a mark. Each one speaks to me, whispering promises of the control I ache to exert.
The table beside them is a testament to luxury and depravity, laden with toys still gleaming from their packaging. Butt plugs, dildos, restraints—all tools of the trade in Cupid’s Court.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Mickey asks, crouching in front of her.
She lifts her face. “Abby,” she replies, her voice a melodic whisper that vibrates through the charged air.
“Is that the truth?” I can’t resist the urge to test her, to gauge her reaction.
The whip in my hand sings as I snap it through the air, and I’m rewarded with the sight of her body tensing, readying for an impact that doesn’t come. It’s a delicious moment—power and fear wrapped in one tense breath—and it draws a smile from me.
“Y-yes,” she insists, a tremor betraying her nerves. She hesitates then adds, “May I ask a question?”
I take a moment to appreciate her beauty, the way the light dances across her skin, casting shadows in all the right places. There’s a raw elegance to her posture, a silent invitation begging to be accepted.
When Mickey looks at me, I just shrug. “Of course,” he murmurs, gently cupping her face in his big hands.
I smirk when she relaxes into his touch. This is the mistake they all make, they believe his soft caress, assume he’s the lesser evil. Spoiler alert; Mickey is a dick. He’s my best friend and I love him like family. But where I play with their bodies, he toys with emotions.
“Should I call you anything? Like ‘Sir’ or—”
The corners of my mouth twitch upwards. “Your mouth will be too full to call us anything,” I interject with a scoff, delighting in the taunt. The whip rests in my grip, supple and eager as I draw near and trace its tip up her spine. Her body shivers, and the sound that escapes her is nothing short of music to my ears.
I circle Abby like a hawk eyeing its prey, my annoyance simmering just below the surface. People toss around BDSM like it’s some kind of catch-all term for anyone who likes it rough. They don’t get it.
Not everyone is about the lifestyle; for me it’s about the moment—the power. I’m not looking to own anyone. I just want them beneath me, surrendering because I make them, not because it’s their default setting. In my world, those are two very different things. Others might disagree, but whatever.
Coming to a stop, my eyes land on her hair. I love the crazy black and white locks that perfectly represent both me and Mickey. And what do you know, the white-haired dick is already playing with her white strands, having gathered them in his hand, tickling her skin with the ends.
“Are you aware of the rules, Abby?” I ask sternly.
Her head snaps toward the sound of my voice, “Yes.” When I don’t say anything, she licks her soft-looking lips. “I’m not allowed to remove the mask, and I’m to do what you say.”
I’m immediately annoyed and impressed that she added the last part. “So if I tell you to cut yourself, you’ll do it?” I ask. My tone is low and dark, and I smile cruelly when she shivers.
“Of course not,” she spits.
“So, what are the rules?” I ask again, wanting her to give me an answer that isn’t drone-like.
