Chapter 149 Chapter 149 The Green Door
Before Ivan can say anything—before he can even ask if she told me—
“Elle?”
Miguel’s voice cuts through everything. “Are you up for a game tonight?” he asks.
Ivan grunts as I push him away. Damn it. I wasn’t going to do this tonight, but I need distance—from him, from that pull. Before I fall right back into old habits and end up fucking him…or both of them.
I nod at Miguel. He takes my hand and leads me into the dungeon room.
Miguel looks good in anything, but especially in uniform. That’s how we met—me covering a graveyard shift, him and his partner stopping in for food. We bonded over soccer, of all things. Same team, same obsession. Weeks later, we ran into each other here. Since then, he’s been…a teacher.
I close the door behind us and lean against it, watching him undress.
Miguel is tall, dark hair, dark eyes, smooth tanned skin. Muscled everywhere. Controlled. I wait until he’s finished.
“Help me with my dress, you little pig,” I say, my tone dropping, slipping into something colder, sharper.
“Yes, mistress.” His voice changes too—quieter, obedient, stripped down.
He steps in carefully, unzipping my dress like it’s something sacred. I step out of it, and he drapes it over a leather lounger. The room looks exactly how it should—dark, damp, filthy in aesthetic only. Chains line the walls, paddles hang in rows, an electric chair sits in the corner, a guillotine prop across from it. It’s theatrical, extreme. The room breathes around us.
I don’t judge his kink. If anything, it gives me control.
Miguel has a few girls he rotates with, but he’s always been professional with me. Respectful. Safe.
He leans past me, grabbing a paddle. “You look amazing,” he says with a grin, placing it in my hand. “Red and green are still our safe words.” Then he reaches again, handing me a whip.
“On the ground, little piggy. Show me what a good pig you are.”
He drops immediately, hands and knees hitting the floor, posture shifting, body language transforming. He leans into it fully—committed, exaggerated, offering himself to the dynamic without hesitation. He is crawling and snorting as I circle behind him slowly.
“That sounds nothing like a pig. You can do better than that.”
The whip cracks through the air—sharp, sudden, slicing the silence.
He flinches—not from pain, but from anticipation.
Again.
Closer this time.
He messes it up on purpose. He wants the punishment.
I crack it again, closer this time. He turns, crawling toward me, pressing kisses to my leg.
“Bad pig,” I say coolly. “Go lie down.”
He obeys, stretching out across the lounger.
I bring the paddle down across his ass—clean, hard. He moans every time. His reactions are honest, needy. But I’m already drifting a little. I need another drink. I shouldn’t have come in here this deep.
“Turn over.”
He rolls onto his back, already hard. His eyes already searching my face for direction, for cues.
I grab the ostrich feathers from the wall and straddle his thighs. Slowly, deliberately, I run them along his cock.
That’s the control.
Not force.
Not intensity.
Timing.
“Are you going to cum for me, little pig?”
He nods, already breathless, hips twitching. I drag the feathers up and down, barely touching, just enough to drive him insane. He bucks underneath me, desperate.
I never touch him directly. That’s the rule. Toys only.
A thought crosses my mind—does he get hard every time someone calls him a pig on patrol? I almost laugh.
But something’s off. He should’ve finished by now.
I reach behind me and unhook my bra, letting it fall away, my breasts bare. I bounce and he watches me like for the first time he wants to touch me. To taste me.
“Fuck—” he groans, and then he comes, spilling over his stomach.
“Good little pig,” I say with a wink.
Just like that, it’s over.
Miguel sits up, calm again, composed. He helps me back into my dress, zipping me up. I watch him clean up and get dressed too—pants, shirt, tie, everything back in place like nothing happened.
“Want to grab a drink?” I ask. “I’m legal now.”
He laughs. “No shit. Yeah, let’s get one.”
He flips the light on before we leave. He likes to see who’s been watching.
I turn away. I don’t.
“Damn,” he mutters. “Lot of people out there tonight.” He pauses. “Friends of yours?”
“I’m not looking,” I say quickly. “Got dragged here with a few exes. I’m having a night.”
We step out anyway.
I glance—just once.
The Pavlovs are there, jaws practically on the floor. Of course they are. Of course they watched. How do you like me now? I wonder what they think now, am I still the hurt, broken girl?
They follow us.
“Is this more fun, Jax?” I call over my shoulder without turning. “The basement’s where it’s at. Go check it out.”
Miguel and I slip into a booth, fresh drinks in hand. We talk, easy, casual. A few more men join us, drawn in like they always are.
And suddenly, I’m surrounded.
I feel like Gemma.
She’s always the one in the center here—men circling, couples asking her to join. Right now she’s across the room, sitting with her husband, Sergey, Boris. Three other women are with them. She looks right at home.
I drag my attention back to my table. One of the guys is telling a dumb joke. It’s not funny, but I laugh anyway. This guy is a judge. The clientele in this place is insane.
Miguel catches it, shaking his head. “That was fake as hell.”
“I know,” I mutter.
I’m already over the attention. It’s different when it’s this many, this intense. Powerful men, polished, controlled—looking at you like you’re something to consume. Something to try. Something to play with.
Too many wedding ring dents.
I spot my cousin and Tiana heading upstairs.
Noted. Avoid that.
My phone vibrates. I pull it from my clutch.
Vince.
Want to watch? Me and Vladimira.
I stare at the message.
The basement.
Different energy down there. Beds instead of mats. Sheets. One overhead light. People watching from the edges. Heat, sweat, breath.
Do I want to see that?
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I say, sliding out of the booth. “I’m being called away. Have a great night.”
I grab another drink on my way out.
I have no idea how I’m still standing.