Chapter 90 One month with the Mafia boss: Day three
8:45 pm
The elevator descends so deep beneath the city that the air changes.
It becomes thick, expensive, laced with oud and sex.
When the doors slide open, the scent hits Nyra like a drug, candle wax, leather, money, and something darker underneath.
Kazimir’s hand is low on her spine, guiding her forward.
He dressed her himself tonight, a gown of liquid midnight silk that looks modest from the front high neck, long sleeves until she turns.
The back is nothing but a plunge to the base of her spine, held together by a single silver chain.
No bra.
No panties.
Only a thin black satin blindfold folded in his pocket and the heavy platinum collar locked around her throat, its engraved inscription hidden against her skin: Property of K.V.
The room is circular, marbled floor, ringed by thirty plush chairs.
Every seat is taken.
Masks of Venetian gold, matte black,
bone-white.
Billionaires, oligarchs, cartel princes, tech gods who buy governments for fun.
They drink champagne that costs more than most people’s houses and wait for the show.
A circular platform rises from the center of the floor like a dark moon, spotlit in blood-red.
Chains dangle from the ceiling above it, glinting.
Kazimir stops at the edge of the light.
“Last chance to safe-word, kotyonok,” he murmurs against her ear, voice barely audible over the low throb of music. “Once you step up there, you’re mine to display.”
Nyra’s pulse is a war drum between her legs.
She is already soaked; the silk clings to her thighs when she walks.
She turns her face into his jaw, breathes him and whispers, “Green.”
His smile is slow, lethal. He slips the blindfold over her eyes, knots it tight. The world goes black.
Strong hands lift her onto the platform. The chains are cold when he fastens soft leather cuffs around her wrists and hoists her arms high.
Her body stretches, toes barely brushing the floor.
The gown parts in the back; cool air kisses every vertebra, the curve of her ass, the wet seam of her cunt.
She hears the soft intake of breath from thirty masked strangers.
Kazimir circles her once. She feels the heat of him even before he touches.
“Gentlemen,” he announces, voice carrying effortlessly, Russian accent sharpened to a blade.
“Lot 13. One month of exclusive use, already paid for. Tonight is not for bidding. Tonight is for looking.”
A low ripple of dark laughter.
He stops behind her.
One finger traces the chain at her back, then flicks it.
The gown falls open completely, sliding off her shoulders and dropping at her feet.
She is naked except for the collar, the cuffs, the blindfold, and the trembling.
His palm cups her breast, pinches the nipple hard enough that she gasps.
“This,” he says, “is mine.” Another pinch, crueler.
“These marks are mine.” His hand drifts lower, over her belly, two fingers sliding unhurriedly through her dripping folds.
He spreads her open so the room can see exactly how wet she is.
Nyra whimpers. The sound echoes.
“Listen to her,” Kazimir growls. “Already ruined, and I’ve barely started.”
He steps away. She sways in the chains, exposed, blind, aching. The silence stretches until it’s unbearable.
Then the first touch, he drops to his knees behind her and licks a slow, filthy line from her clit to her asshole.
She cries out, hips jerking. The chains rattle.
He eats her like he’s starving,his two fingers shove inside her, curl hard, scissor wide. She is dripping down his wrist in seconds.
The audience shifts. Someone groans.
Kazimir stands. She hears his belt, his zipper. Then the blunt, thick head of his cock nudged her entrance.
He doesn’t thrust. He teases, slides through her folds, bumps her clit, drags back down.
“Beg,” he commands, loud enough for every masked bastard to hear.
“Please,” she sobs instantly. “Please fuck me, Kazimir, please…”
He slams into her so hard the platform rocks.
The chains sing. She screams, the sound raw and broken and perfect.
He sets a merciless rhythm, hips snapping, balls slapping against her clit with every thrust.
One hand fists her hair, yanks her head back so her throat is exposed to the room.
The other reaches around to rub tight, brutal circles over her swollen clit.
“Look at her, take it,” he snarls to the audience. “Look how this cunt was made for me.”
She comes without warning, a violent, full-body spasm that milks his cock and leaves her shaking so hard the chains clatter like bones.
He doesn’t slow. He fucks her through it, past it, until she’s sobbing from overstimulation.
He pulls out suddenly, spins her, she is still blindfolded, still chained and shoves her down to her knees on the platform.
The marble is cold against her shins.
“Open your mouth.”
He inserted his cock after she opened her mouth, slick with her own juices, and fucks her throat with the same violence he used on her pussy.
Gagging, drooling, she takes everything he gives.
The room is no longer quiet. She hears zippers, low groans, the wet sounds of men stroking themselves to the sight of her ruin.
Kazimir’s hand tightens in her hair. “They’re jerking off to you, Nyra. Every man in this room wants what’s mine. And they’ll never fucking have it.”
He comes with a loud curse, flooding her mouth, holding her down until her nose is buried in the trimmed hair at his base. She swallows, coughs, swallows again.
He pulls out, hauls her up by the collar, and rips the blindfold away.
The sudden light is blinding. Thirty masks stare back, some already streaked with come, others still stroking furiously. The air reeks of sex.
Kazimir turns her to face them fully, one arm banded across her chest, the other sliding between her legs again.
“Look at them,” he whispers against her temple. “Look what you do to them.”
Then louder, to the room: “Who owns this cunt?”
The answer comes in a ragged chorus, “Volkov.”
He finger-fucks her ruthlessly while they watch, adding a third, then a fourth finger. His thumb grinds her clit.
“Come again, kotyonok. Show them who you break for.”
She does, screaming his name, squirting over his hand and the obsidian floor, body convulsing so hard the chains threaten to pull from the ceiling.
When the last shudder leaves her, he catches her limp weight, unfastens the cuffs, and lifts her into his arms like a bride.
Come drips down her thighs. Her collar glints under the red lights.
He carries her past the masked men without a word. Some reach out as if to touch; his glare stops them cold.
In the elevator, he presses her against the mirrored wall, still holding her, and kisses her slow and deep.
“You were perfect,” he murmurs. “Every man down there will dream of you tonight and wake up hard and furious that they can’t have you.”
Nyra’s arms wind around his neck, trembling.
“Take me home,” she whispers. “Fuck me until I forget they ever existed.”
Kazimir smiles against her mouth.