Page 11 of Dirty Little Secrets

XAIDEN

B ash opens the door to the Bentley, letting me out in front of a remote office building tucked into a quiet corner of Tribeca.

Most people pass by without a second glance, seeing only the generic signage and the illusion of corporate monotony.

What they don’t see is what lies beneath.

To most passersby, it’s just another glass tower blending into the skyline masked by similarity, indistinguishable from the buildings beside it.

I walk through the black marble lobby. Old man Hubert sits behind the white and chrome front desk in a plain black security uniform. He gives me a nod as he always does.

I step into the elevator. Lean close to the glass, place my thumb on the reader, it scans my thumbprint, then my retina. The glass doors slide shut, sealing me inside a world I built.

The elevator descends. When it stops, a holographic diamond wrapped in chains shimmers across the doors before they slide open.

“Welcome to Obsidian, X. Have a great time,” a woman’s voice purrs from the speakers.

Three bouncers stand at attention, waiting. They scan me again. No pat-downs. No checks for weapons. They already know who I am. The precautions are for everyone else.

I pass through the final soundproof door and into the heart of Obsidian.

Bass thrums beneath my feet. Music pulses low and slow, like the throb of a heartbeat.

The sound of sex and shadowed fantasies rises the deeper I go.

This sex club isn’t for the faint of heart.

It is for the ones with power. A place where families, jobs, and life are left at the door. The is the escape everyone wishes for.

The main lounge opens up in a blur of black marble and gold accents. Neon lights dance overhead, shifting with the rhythm. Screens flicker with voyeuristic scenes from private rooms. Men and women tangled together in curated sin, their desires dripping from every moan.

There’s no judgment here. No pretense. Only indulgence.

I made this place for people like me, people who need more but are afraid to voice it out loud in the real world.

Room 11 is waiting. I scan the barcode from my phone.

The door unlocks and I step inside, knowing the feed is live, not caring who watches from outside.

I could activate the app and let the scene stream to the elite members who paid for the privilege from wherever they are.

But I don’t because I never do unless my identity is hidden.

The woman waiting for me wears red. Not just any red.

The same blood-red shade Nori wore. A placeholder for the woman I can’t get out of my head.

For a second, I question the woman begging to be fucked.

The curve of her body similar to hers. The size of her breasts are a bit larger but it’s not her.

She isn’t here. She couldn’t be. This place is catered to the elite.

There is no way she would be able to get in without payment of that magnitude.

And yet, the resemblance hits me like a sucker punch as my eyes roam over her dark hair, petite frame, curves that beg to be marked.

The woman is masked, and I prefer it that way. I don’t want to see her face. I want to pretend.

“I’ve been waiting for you, X,” she purrs.

I remain still, controlled. “I see.”

“Don’t you want to know my name?”

“No.”

Names are for daylight and polite conversations. This isn’t that. And her voice doesn’t match. She shifts on the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room sprawled out like an offering. The cameras are angled to catch every movement, but I ignore the panel beckoning me to press the button.

“Spread your pussy,” I demand.

She obeys, sliding the lace aside to reveal herself, already wet and shaved bare. Her hands rise to peel down her bra, baring breasts I want to mark.

“Fuck me, X,” she moans.

“Do you like pain?”

“Yes.”

I reach for the chains secured to the bed, cuffing her wrists and ankles until she’s stretched open, offered up like prey. I remove a condom from my pocket, undo my pants, and kick them aside. Shoes too.

I don’t waste time. My cock is hard. I’ve been on edge all day.

“I’m going to fuck you,” I growl. “Hard.”

“Yes,” she hisses. “Fuck me hard, X.”

I slide the condom on, my mind flickering with the image of Nori. Her mouth. Her voice. That red fucking dress.

But this isn’t her I remind myself of that as I thrust inside.

Her body stretches tight, wet heat searing up my spine.

Her cries half surrender, half invitation as I fill her, her hips lifting off the bed, chains clinking, the sound sharp against the beat of the music leaking through the walls.

I let her adjust to my size before pulling back and slamming into her again.

“Fuck me,” she begs.

I grip her hips and oblige. Every thrust a silent exorcism until it’s not enough.

And then I pull out in frustration. She’s not tight enough. Not where I want her to be. I smear her arousal over her asshole, circling the tight ring before pushing the head of my cock against it. She trembles beneath me, the drag of my fingers slick and slow.

“You like it in the ass?”

“Fuck yes, X. Take my ass.”

She arches for me. I press in deep. She screams in pleasure as I bury with every quiver like a struck chord. Sweat runs down my back, soaking my shirt. I pinch her nipples hard. She moans. I slap her tits and she laughs, a sound caught between agony and ecstasy.

“X,” she cries. “Harder.”

I give her what she wants. I fuck her until she’s shaking. Panting. Until her ass is raw and her cunt dripping. Until her moans become sobs and her cries fade into a desperate, beautiful silence. I don’t stop until I’ve driven the image of Nori out of my mind.