If You Dare: An Erotic Sequel

Whore

Two scantily-clad women in cages writhed against the bars in a primal dance. The cages flanked a naked woman bathing in a giant martini glass, her pink, pebbled nipples glistening in the twinkling spotlight. The lounge was fit to bursting with a range of sketchy individuals, each more exotic and terrifying than the last. A crystal chandelier glittered above a caged snow leopard in the center of the vast, decadent space. A man in a silk snakeskin shirt wrestled with two topless women on a Persian rug, a baby tiger nestled snugly in his lap.

You watched as he kissed each woman in turn. Your eyes widened in quiet alarm when he tangled his fingers in each of their hair and forced their heads together for a kiss.

He eyed you hungrily all the while.

You turned to the bartender as he refilled your glass of red wine, your thighs trembling with fear, nerves, and anticipation. You fit the part with your short hair slicked back, clad in a short black dress with a plunging neckline, dark red lipstick coating your lips, and a smudge of black eyeliner making your eyes smolder like two black coals. On the inside, however, you were as scared as a frightened rabbit. You tossed back a gulp of red wine to calm your nerves.

Domino had disappeared that morning after your bout of love-making on the cold bathroom floor. Barry, your closest confidante among his supporters, later informed you that he would be driving you into the depths of the city to an erotic lounge the citizens of New York knew as The Red Velvet Salon, a place where fantasy melded with reality in an endless array of rooms dedicated to specialized fantasies. You had nearly hugged Barry in excitement, but had restrained yourself to preserve the tentative alliance you had formed with Domino's right-hand man. Despite your best efforts to prove yourself, you were still a cop in his eyes and, therefore, not to be trusted.

Afterwards, you had locked yourself in the bathroom to properly shower, shave, slather your body with jasmine-scented lotion, and carefully apply your makeup. You lacked nothing the least bit materialistic. Domino had provided for you in every way imaginable. You hadn't stepped foot outside Domino's heavily-guarded base in months and hadn't interacted much with his supporters since one masked figure cornered you with sexual intent. After the nameless man had tried to force himself on you, Domino had sheltered you within the confines of your underground apartment and later returned with a blood-spattered face and suit. Since then, your interactions with his supporters had been closely monitored for your protection.

The incident was never spoken of again, though you knew from that point forward that Domino was fully capable and willing to kill on your behalf.

The months of prolonged isolation had not prepared you for the experience of being packed like a sardine into a room full of dregs, whores, and criminals. The hum of conversation, the body heat, the deeply sexual rasp of the saxophone in the distant corner – it was overwhelming and exhilarating all at once.

Your eyes scanned the unfamiliar faces packed in the lounge.

Where is he? You huffed impatiently, your heart fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird.

Your eyes frantically searched for traces of black, white, silver, and red as you pretended to leisurely sip your wine. You projected an outward image of calm composure, but inside you were screaming. At that precise moment, as if your mind had manifested the man himself, a tell-tale gasp rippled through the crowd. The wall of bodies parted like the Red Sea to allow New York City's most notorious criminal through. His semi-long hair was combed back, his loose and wild curls brushing the tops of his black shoulders. His suit was immaculate, no longer stained with soap, water, and your juices, the cut accentuating his lithe frame. His face paint was no longer smudged, the lines crisp and pristine. Your breath hitched in your throat.