Prologue

 

The address turned to mush inside her closed, sweaty fist, the crumpled wad of paper distorting her neatly printed writing, the ink smudged. She took a deep breath of city air, smelling mixed aromas, gasoline, fried chicken, a whiff of yesterday's permanent wave solution and a bit of rot coming from a nearby dumpster, where the remnants of the evening meal at Harvey's diner lay wasted. The lights had been turned out hours before. But Lana's date was scheduled for two a.m. This wasn't usual, but she'd been on assignments that were more obscure. She steeled herself against an onslaught of repressed emotions, as she usually did on these occasions, pressed a red smile on her lips and moved deeper into a vague and sullen night, fighting the desire to flee but driven by powers greater than she understood.

"Night-Myth?" a voice from the shadows called.

"That is me," she answered with candor and suspicion.

"This way." The voice became flesh, reaching out to her from the blackness, taking her hand, guiding her through the alley, blind, beyond a dozen doors, a dozen painted windows, finally darting with her through an opening that swam before her unsuspecting eyes and swallowed her in jet black nothingness. She tumbled reckless, suspense killing her rational thought, fear grasping her throat. She'd swore she'd never make herself vulnerable again and here she was, captured and afraid. She's sworn off the risky ones, telling Armando that she was on the straight and narrow, a reformed mistress of submissive acts. He laughed in her face, knowing who and what she was bone deep. Not on the surface but beyond the pores of her skin, beyond logic. By day she was simply Lana, uncomplicated and gentle. Night was another matter. She suspected that devils and angels had her in their care, probably fighting over her soul in these long hours. By dawn, she had no idea who won the battle. But she slept afterwards, happily.

 

These sinister beginnings opened into a strange café. This wasn't like the diner. The light was golden and glowing, not some painful fluorescent glare that hurt the eyes. She smelled garlic and olive oil, herbs and Spanish cooking.

"Mr. Brionas," the unidentified guide introduced her to a man of earthy color, washed in ember tones, his hair black and slicked back, his features well-defined and critical of her as she presented herself for his inspection.

"Sir," she bowed slightly, feeling oddly uncomfortable in her leathers. The corset dress was tight, making it difficult to breathe. But wasn't that what they wanted of her?

"Sit," he replied simply, nodding to the empty wooden chair at her side.

Of the seven tables in this obscure restaurant, theirs was the only one occupied, but even at this hour there remained a festive atmosphere, as if the proprietors were expecting at any moment more customers to rush through the door, doffing their overcoats and sighing their welcome. She understood, however, that they would remain alone, except for the few who would serve them like dutiful slaves.

Lana sat gingerly on the edge of the chair, the corset dress riding high enough on her thighs so that her naked bottom squashed itself against the wooden seat. She squirmed in honor of the exhilarating current of desire that swept through her lower half-the more sexual part of her.

"Part your legs for me, so that I can see your cunt," Mr. Brionas said.

She answered obediently. This was what he paid for.

"And finger yourself."

Unusual, she thought, but not a struggle. As her fingers skirted about the folds of sweaty, come-soaked flesh, she breathed deeper, relaxing in the familiarity of her body, encouraged by its swift response. She could pull this one off quickly if that was all he wanted. She ran her hand along her crotch, poking fingers in appropriate places, while relishing this moment of surrender staring into a master's eyes. Minutes, seconds really, the finishing spasms were just a moment away, he reached to his side, while still filling his mouth with a forkful of meat and Spanish spices, and jerked her hand from her crotch. "Enough."

She gasped annoyed, but trying not to let that show.

His lip curled into a smile. "Get up. Turn around and crawl on the chair, on your knees. Play with yourself like that."

She had the instruction memorized and completed within a moment, picking up where she'd left off. It was more difficult this way, but not impossible. While clinging with one hand to the back of the chair, she began to hump her pussy with her other hand, sticking her uncovered butt out, naturally swaying it lewdly, so close he could touch it if he chose to. Mr. Brionas continued eating, watching, finding his pants bulging, his erection pressing at the seams urgently.

"Cum, slut," he barked the order between bites of food and a gulp of wine.

She paid heed to the physical response forgetting where she was in this nearly empty restaurant. The waiter peered at the pair from the kitchen door, joined by the cook and the Maître'd, snickering, embarrassed but unrelenting in their appreciation of the scene. The buxom beauty with the streaked, honey-colored hair and the pale eyes, all decked out in glove-soft leather was putting on quite a show. Though she strained to keep her balance on a precarious chair, her thighs were strong and her poise perfect, even as she was getting off. Every gasp from her parted lips, every 'ooh' and 'ah', sent erotic vibrations through the warm, golden air.

"Take your hand away," the man ordered at the moment of culmination, as the chair was gently rocking and her hand rapidly working her wet slit. She'd jiggled and cooed enough for him. He stood, moved his body over hers like a vulture descending open-winged, grasping her nether regions from behind and underneath, finishing what her fingers had taken to the edge.

She whimpered, her cry like a wounded bird. Slumping into the chair afterwards, she was afraid to use him for comfort. He was a stranger; this was their first time.

"I suppose sluts like you prefer pain," he acknowledged. He laughed hollowly. "That's why you have sadists like us." He whipped his belt from his pants and brusquely wrapped her neck, pulling tight enough so that she choked, then he let go, doubling the leather in his fist and pelting her naked derriere with powerful strokes that smashed the air with sound and her flesh with pain. Her ass turned pink then a darker indescribable shade streaked with blood blisters close to the surface.

She stoically squelched a cry, again and again, each time the belt thundered on her behind.

He finally stopped the beating, rubbing the plump red cheeks with his hand. The tender rounds were soothed by his touch enough to feel her pussy respond with another climax rising quickly. He unzipped his pants revealing his erection and smearing juice from her pussy deep into her crack, he parted the cheeks and shoved himself inside.

"Yeeeeaouch," she quietly expelled a breath of air, while letting him take over until he finished.

"I can't wait to have you in irons, Myth." He practically toppled her over as he pushed her away, withdrawing from her ass. She stepped down to catch her balance, and stood upright. "Your ass hot?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she spoke directly. "Is that what you wanted?"

"Is that what you wanted?" he snapped back.

"It's my place to serve," she said. "That is what you're paying me for."

"Yes. Indeed," he was reminded of the arrangement. Fishing through his pocket, he pulled out the sealed envelope. "It's all there in small bills."
"Thank you."

"I'd like to take you in a crowded bar, pinch your nipples with clamps underneath your dress and watch your face contort as you attempt to absorb the pain."

Her entire body winced.

"Yes," he noted her response, "I think you'd like that."

She stared at him while he paid for his dinner, leaving a $20 tip for the inquisitive waiter. When he was gone, she glanced toward the kitchen door where the trio was still looking on, dazed. Stuffing the envelope in the bodice of the corset dress, she grabbed for her shawl and retreated into the night.

 

***

 

"And is Night-Myth happy tonight?" she heard Armando's whisper rise from the blackness of the bedroom.

"Night-Myth is happy," she confirmed, settling into bed beside her lover.

"And how about Lana?" he added, as he often did when she returned from her latest trick.

"She's okay, too, love."

The burly Mexican sighed and she sighed, and they rolled together, falling asleep in each other's arms.