Chapter 4 – The First Snip – (Dancing with the devil I already knew)
The Maybach moved through the night like black silk. I sat rigid, knees locked together, trying to pretend the crotchless black lace panties Ashley had chosen weren’t already soaked through and completely useless. There was no fabric between my shaved-bare lips and the cool leather seat, only a delicate oval opening framed by tiny crimson satin bows.
Every breath, every tiny shift of the car, let the butter-soft leather glide directly against swollen, slick flesh. My skin had never felt this alive. It was as if shaving away my modesty had turned every nerve ending into a live wire.
The corset rubbed my nipples raw with every heartbeat; the gold garter clips tugged at my stockings like constant reminders that I was dressed for one thing only.
I drank the champagne in four frantic swallows just to have something to do with my hands. It only made the heat worse.
By the time the mansion appeared, glowing like a promise and a threat, I was trembling so hard the empty flute rattled against the crystal decanter. The driver opened my door and offered his gloved hand. When my fingers touched his, even through fabric, a bolt shot straight to my clit.
I stood on legs that felt borrowed. The night air slipped instantly under the scandalously short hem and kissed my bare, dripping pussy through the open lace. I gasped out loud. It felt like being licked by the dark itself.
I walked up the marble steps past couples already devouring each other, past women in scraps of lace with nipples hard and visible, past men with hands inside dresses and mouths on throats.
Every brush of air against my exposed sex was magnified a thousand times. I was one heartbeat away from coming untouched.
At the door, the giant in the black mask took my invitation. His gaze traveled over me like a hand: slow, deliberate, lingering on the way the corset barely contained my breasts, on the inch of pale thigh above the stockings, on the place where the dress ended, and the open lace began. When his eyes met mine again, they were dark with knowledge.
“Enjoy to your heart’s desire, little one,” he rumbled.
The doors opened, and heat rolled over me: candle smoke, champagne, sex thick in the air. A flute appeared in my hand. I drank half in one go.
Then gardenias and smoke wrapped around me from behind. Hands settled on my hips: warm, sure, possessive. A tall body pressed against my back, breasts soft and heavy against my shoulder blades, as a thigh pressed between mine and up against the open lace. I felt latex creak. I felt the hard line of a cock against the small of my back. Ashley and David.
Ashley’s lips found the shell of my ear. “Found you,” she purred, and the vibration went straight to my clit. They didn’t ask. They simply moved, and I moved with them, because my body had already surrendered.
David’s hands gripped my waist, while Ashley’s thigh rode higher, pressing the soaked lace edges against my swollen folds until I whimpered into the mask. Every nerve ending was screaming.
The satin corset rubbed my nipples with every breath; the garter clips tugged at my stockings; the cool air kissed the open oval of the crotchless panties and made me clench so hard I saw stars.
We danced, or ground, or surrendered.
Ashley spun me so I faced David.
His eyes behind the mask were black with hunger.
Ashley pressed against my back, breasts soft and heavy, hands sliding up to cup just beneath my corset, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts.
I was trembling so hard I could barely stand.
David’s hand slid down my thigh, under the hem of the dress, slow enough that every inch of skin he touched felt branded.
His fingertips found the delicate crimson bows framing the opening in the lace, traced them, teased them.
Ashley’s mouth was at my ear again, hot and wicked.
“Still pretending you’re wearing panties at a party like this, little lamb? We both know that pretty hole has been open and waiting since the boutique.”
David produced tiny silver scissors from his pocket, the metal catching the low light like a promise.
He held them up so I could see.
My heart stopped.
He hooked one finger under the thin side string of the crotchless panties (purely decorative, already soaked), stretched it away from my hip.
Snip.
The left bow fluttered free.
Snip.
The right.
The useless scrap of lace fell away entirely, leaving me completely, irrevocably bare beneath the dress.
Cool air kissed my naked pussy for the first time in public.
I was framed by black lace and gold garters, dripping visibly down the inside of my thighs.
The exposure was immediate and devastating.
Every breath of air moved across swollen, slick flesh.
Every shift of my hips made my lips glide against each other, wet and obscene.
I swayed.
David tucked the scissors away, cupped my chin, and brushed his thumb over my trembling lower lip.
“Better,” he said, his voice rough.
Ashley laughed, low and delighted, and pressed her thigh harder between my legs, letting me feel exactly how ready I was.
“Look at you,” she whispered. “Skin like fresh cream, dressed for sin, shaking because you finally understand what tonight really is.”
I understood.
I was naked where it mattered.
I was on display.
I was already ruined, and the night had barely begun.
And every inch of my too-sensitive, untouched skin was screaming for whatever came next.
I was terrified.
I was desperate.
I was exactly where I belonged.
Chapter 5 – The Tattoo That Knew My Birthday – (The moment the mask wasn’t enough)
I fled the dance floor with my pulse roaring in my ears and my bare pussy clenching on nothing.
There was nothing between my legs now, nothing at all.
David had snipped the useless strings of the crotchless lace, and the whole scrap had fluttered to the marble like a dying moth.
I was utterly, shockingly naked beneath the tiny dress.
Every frantic step let cool air lick swollen, dripping lips; every brush of my own thighs sent sparks shooting up my spine.
I could feel wetness sliding down both inner thighs in slow, obscene rivulets.
I was so open, so exposed, that the simple act of walking felt like being fucked by the night itself.
I needed only one more stroke to come untouched.
I rounded a corner too fast and slammed into a wall of tuxedo and muscle.
“I’m sorry—” I gasped, staggering.
A low, velvet laugh stopped me colder than any scream could have.
“No harm, young one,” the woman purred, her voice sliding over my skin like warm oil. “It’s a wild night for fun, isn’t it, Thomas?”
Thomas.
The name detonated behind my eyes.
I looked up, and the world tilted.
The woman was tall, with blonde hair spilling in perfect waves, her crimson silk dress so sheer that her nipples pressed dark and brutal against the fabric.
The exact tilt of her head when she smiled.
The exact curve of that laugh.
The exact way her manicured hand rested possessively on the silver-haired man’s forearm.
Mom.
My mother.
Standing three feet away from me in a sex club with her fingers curled around my grandfather’s arm like she’d always belonged there.
My lungs seized.
Sound collapsed into a high, thin whine.
Everything slowed: the swirl of masks, the wet slap of bodies already fucking in the shadows, the low bass that throbbed in my clit like a second heartbeat.
All of it blurred into white noise except for the pounding between my legs.
I knew that shoulder under her cheek.
I knew the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was happy.
I knew the scent of her perfume because I’d stolen sprays of it since I’d been twelve, and now it was mixed with something darker, something that made my stomach flip with nausea and raw, electric heat at the same time.
Grandpa’s hand settled at the small of her back in the same possessive way it had rested on Grandma’s waist for fifty years, only his thumb traced slow circles just above the curve of her ass.
I should have screamed.
I should have ripped off my mask and run until my lungs bled.
Instead, I stood frozen, mouth open behind the Venetian lace, fresh wetness gushing down my thighs because my traitorous body had decided this was the moment to remind me I was completely bare and dripping for the most forbidden thing imaginable.
Mom tilted her head, studying me the way she used to when she knew I was lying about homework.
“Thomas,” she murmured, voice soft and wondering and hungry, “isn’t she just… exquisite?”
Grandpa’s gaze swept over me slowly, deliberately, the same gentle eyes that had checked my scraped knees when I’d been six, only now they lingered on the way the corset shoved my breasts high, on the trembling inch of pale thigh above my stockings, on the place where the dress ended, and my naked, swollen pussy began.
His nostrils flared.
He knew.
They both knew.
I turned and bolted.
Heels skittering on marble, dress riding higher with every step, cool air licking my naked sex like a tongue.
I found a high crimson-velvet stool at a tall table near the edge of the dance floor and scrambled onto it, thighs sticking instantly to the cushion.
I pressed my knees together, but it was pointless.
There was nothing to hide behind.
Every tiny shift let air move across swollen, dripping flesh.
I was so wet I could smell myself over the candles and champagne, sweet, unmistakable, mortifying.
I tried to stare at the crowd, tried to pretend I was invisible.
My eyes betrayed me.
They dragged back across the room to the curved sofa beneath a dim red sconce.
Mom had her head resting in the crook of Grandpa’s shoulder, lips brushing his throat the way I’d seen her do with Dad a thousand times at Christmas.
Only Dad wasn’t here.
Grandpa’s hand was under the crimson silk of her dress, moving in slow, practiced circles that made her hips roll in tiny, needy thrusts.
Her soft moan carried over the music and conversation, straight into my clit like a tuning fork.
I couldn’t look away.
Grandpa’s fingers came away glistening.
He painted them across Mom’s lips like gloss.
She licked them clean with a hum that shot straight between my legs, a sound I’d never heard from her in my life and now would never unhear.
My own mother, touching herself off my grandfather’s fingers in public.
I forgot how to breathe.
My dress had ridden so high when I sat that cool air kissed my naked pussy constantly now.
I was dripping onto the velvet cushion.
I could feel every pulse of my heartbeat in my clit, swollen and aching, begging for pressure. I would die before I gave it here.
Mom’s masked eyes found me across the room.
Even behind the lace, I felt seen, known, stripped more naked than the missing panties ever could have managed.
“Oh, young one,” she called softly, voice exactly the one that used to sing me to sleep, “enjoying the show?”
The words licked up my spine like fire.
I was going to come.
Right here.
Right now.
With my grandfather’s hand up my mother’s dress and my own pussy clenching on nothing while strangers watched.
And the worst, most terrifying part was that I didn’t want to stop it.
I wanted to spread my legs wider and let them see exactly how wet their little girl had become.
Mom’s voice drifted across the room like velvet soaked in sin.
“Oh, young one… enjoying the show?”
The words weren’t loud, but they punched straight between my legs.
My tongue fused to the roof of my mouth.
I couldn’t have answered if the world depended on it.
Grandpa’s voice followed, the same gentle baritone that once read me Psalm 23 when I was five, now laced with something dark and hungry.
“Come here, Sweetheart. Nothing to be ashamed of. Not here.”
My feet moved before my brain caught up.
I walked toward them like I was on a wire, every step a betrayal, every inch of bare, dripping pussy screaming at me to stop, run, hide, pray, anything but this.
Up close, the scent hit me like a drug: Chanel No. 5, Grandpa’s cedar-and-soap smell from every childhood hug, and underneath it the unmistakable salt-sweet musk of my own mother’s arousal.
It coated my tongue.
It coated my lungs.
It coated the inside of my thighs, where I was already slick past bearing.
They asked my name.
I opened my mouth to lie (anything, Madison, Chloe, anyone but me).
What came out was a broken whisper: “Shelby.”
Grandpa went unnaturally still.
He rolled up his sleeve deliberately, the way he used to show me his Navy tattoo at family reunions.
Only this tattoo wasn’t an anchor.
Three names.
Three dates.
Shelby – 6/12/1983
Shelly – 3/14/1985
Riley – 8/22/2005
My name.
My birthdate.
Inked into my grandfather’s skin like a vow.
The room tunneled.
Sound vanished.
All that existed was the frantic drum of my pulse between my legs and the knowledge that they had been waiting for someone named Shelby (someone who shared my grandmother’s name) to walk into their fantasy.
They still didn’t know it was me.
Mom’s gloved fingers brushed my cheek, feather-light, trembling with reverence.
“Baby?” she breathed, so softly only I could hear, using the pet name she’d called me since I was born. “Is it really… fate?”
I should have screamed.
I should have ripped off my mask and run until my lungs bled.
I should have fallen to my knees and begged God to strike me dead.
Instead, tears flooded my eyes behind the lace, and I nodded.
Once.
A tiny, damning dip of my chin.
Grandpa’s eyes filled with tears and something far darker (predatory, reverent hunger that made my knees buckle).
“We’ve dreamed of this night for years,” he rasped, voice cracking with emotion and raw lust. “Dreamed of finding another Shelby to bring into our bed; to love the way we loved her.”
Mom’s thumb traced my lower lip, gloved leather catching on the wetness already there.
“Say no, and we stop right now,” she whispered, voice shaking with the same war I was losing. “Say nothing… and we’ll take you upstairs and love you the way we’ve always wanted. The way we loved her. Your choice, baby girl.”
My choice.
I was crying so hard that the mask was soaked.
I was shaking so violently that my teeth chattered.
I was spreading my thighs a fraction wider on the velvet stool so the cool air could lick my swollen, naked clit and make me ache harder.
Every cell in my body screamed two things at once:
Run.
Please, God, run.
And
Let them think I’m her.
Let them take me.
Let them ruin me while they still believe I’m someone else.
The second voice was louder.
It was winning.
It had already won the moment I whispered Grandma’s name.
I opened my mouth.
The word no hovered on my tongue like a lifeline I was too far gone to grab.
I didn’t say no.
I didn’t say anything.
I simply stared at them through tears and lace, thighs trembling apart, pussy clenching on nothing, and let the silence be my surrender.
Mom’s breath hitched.
Grandpa’s hand tightened on my waist like he was afraid I’d vanish.
Then Mom smiled (slow, reverent, ravenous) and took my hand.
“Good girl,” she whispered, thinking she was speaking to a stranger wearing her dead mother’s name.
And I followed them toward the sofa they had just left, while they still believed I was someone else.
The lie tasted like damnation.
And I swallowed it whole.
Chapter 6 – Count for Me – (Mommy’s lap, Daddy’s palm)
Mom guided me back to the crimson sofa with the exact same gentle, unbreakable grip she’d used when I’d been six and throwing a tantrum in the grocery store.
Only now her hand rested lower, just above the curve of my bare ass, as her thumb stroked the dimples at the base of my spine like she already owned them.
She sat, silk dress pooling around her thighs, and patted her lap once.
“Over you go, Shelby,” she said, voice soft, maternal, and lethal. “Naughty girls who spy on Mommy and Daddy get their bottoms warmed. You know the rules.”
I should have screamed the truth.
I should have torn the mask off and ended everything.
Instead, I folded myself across her lap like a penitent child, corset creaking, dress riding up instantly to expose every inch of pale, trembling skin.
My ass was in the air, thighs parted just enough that the room could see how wet I was, how swollen, how ready.
Cool air kissed my naked pussy, and I sobbed out loud.
Grandpa stood behind the sofa, arms crossed, eyes glittering behind his mask.
Mom’s gloved hand settled on my lower back, warm and steady.
“Look at this perfect little bottom,” she crooned, precisely the way she used to when I fell off my bike. “All pink already, and we haven’t even started.”
Her palm stroked slow circles over my skin, raising gooseflesh, making me tremble harder.
“Count for Mommy, baby.”
The first spank cracked across my right cheek like a gunshot.
“One,” I whimpered, voice cracking.
Fire bloomed instantly, shocking and perfect.
The second landed on the left.
“Two—”
By the fourth, I was kicking, tears streaming, pussy clenching on nothing.
Mom paused, and her gloved fingers traced the heat she’d just created.
“Listen to her, Daddy,” she said, voice trembling with arousal. “Already crying so pretty. Just like Mama used to.”
Grandpa’s growl was pure hunger.
“Give her what she needs, princess.”
The fifth spank was harder, lower, catching the tender undercurve where ass meets thigh.
I screamed into the cushion, hips jerking forward involuntarily, grinding my naked clit against Mom’s silk-covered thigh.
“Five, Mommy, please—”
The word tore out of me raw and desperate.
They both froze for half a heartbeat.
Then Mom laughed, low and delighted, and brought her hand down again, harder, faster, a steady rhythm that turned my ass from snow to crimson.
“Mommy,” I sobbed with every strike, “I’m sorry, Mommy, I’ll be good, please—”
Each impact jolted straight to my clit.
I was humping her leg now, shameless, chasing friction, tears and snot and mascara soaking the velvet.
Mom’s voice was breathless, shaking.
“That’s it, baby girl. Rub that naughty little pussy on Mommy’s thigh. Show Daddy how sorry you are.”
Grandpa leaned down, breath hot against my ear.
“Such a filthy little thing,” he rasped. “Getting off on your own spanking. Shelby never came this easily, did she?”
Another crack across both cheeks at once.
I screamed again, higher, broken.
Mom’s gloved hand slipped between my thighs without warning, two fingers sliding through soaked folds, parting me, exposing me completely.
“Look at this…
