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Jos
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#nfsw #voyeur #smut #kink
Enjoy the first part 🖤🔥
The venue was steeped in a deliberate dimness, barely lit by reddish lights that stained every corner with an artificial warmth. The air smelled of expensive perfume, alcohol, and something more primal — something unnamed but instantly recognized. Glass walls separated the private booths, designed not to conceal but to display. That was the purpose of the place: to watch and be watched.
She arrived first. She slipped through the crowd with her heart pounding in her throat, wrapped in a black dress that clung to every curve of her sculpted body — firm thighs, a narrow waist, a generous neckline rising and falling with each nervous breath. She had come out of curiosity, driven by that part of her that devoured dark novels at three in the morning and fantasized about things she would never confess out loud. She sat in one of the open booths, legs crossed, watching the couples behind the glass with no trace of shame.
Then she saw him.
He stood at the end of the bar, a drink in hand he had barely touched. Tall, imposing, his black shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, tattoos winding along his forearms. His light eyes scanned the room with predatory calm until they landed on her.
The recognition was instant and brutal. Both froze — her lips parted, his knuckles whitening around the glass.
He walked toward her. Slowly. Without breaking eye contact for even a second. He sat beside her in the booth, close enough for her to smell the leather of his jacket mixed with something metallic she couldn’t quite place. The silence between them was deafening.
—I didn’t expect to find you here —he murmured, voice low and rough, leaning toward her ear.
She swallowed. —I could say the same.
In front of them, behind one of the glass panels, a couple gave themselves over without restraint — bodies intertwined, muffled moans vibrating through the glass. She tried to focus on the scene, but she felt his gaze fixed on her profile like a flame. He wasn’t watching the show. He was watching her while she watched.
His hand settled on her bare thigh. Firm. Warm. He didn’t ask permission; he simply claimed that patch of skin as if it belonged to him. His calloused fingers traced slow circles, inching upward, and she felt the air leave her lungs.
—Do you like to watch? —he asked against her neck, lips brushing her skin without quite kissing it.
She nodded, unable to speak, pulse racing beneath his fingertips.
—Then watch —he ordered softly, squeezing her thigh—. But remember who’s sitting next to you.
And she knew, with absolute certainty, that nothing would ever be the same between them after that night.
She obeyed. Fixed her gaze on the couple behind the glass — he had her pinned against the wall, her hands held above her head, thrusting into her with a brutal rhythm that made the glass tremble. The woman’s moans came through muffled, distorted, as if from another world.
But what unraveled her wasn’t what she saw — it was what she felt.
His hand was still on her thigh, climbing with torturous slowness. His rough, work-marked fingers slipped beneath the edge of her dress, brushing the soft skin of her inner thigh. She parted her legs just a centimeter — involuntarily, instinctively — and he noticed. Of course he noticed.
—So you like this more than you let on —he whispered against her ear, his warm breath raising goosebumps across her skin.
His fingers reached the lace of her underwear. They traced the line of the fabric with maddening precision, pressing just enough for her to feel the promise of what could come without receiving it yet. She pressed her lips together to hold back a sound, but a small gasp escaped anyway.
He smiled against her neck. A smile she didn’t see but felt — dark, satisfied, hungry.
—Don’t hold back —he ordered in a low voice, moving the fabric aside with two fingers and touching her directly for the first time.
She shuddered all over. She was soaked, and they both knew it. His fingers slid between her folds with obscene ease, finding that exact spot with the same precision he’d use to take apart an engine — no hesitation, no doubt. He began tracing slow, firm circles while his other hand held her thigh open, keeping her exposed for him.
In front of them, the couple behind the glass shifted positions. But she wasn’t watching anymore. Her eyes were half-closed, lips parted, her breathing broken into small gasps he collected like trophies.
—Look at them —he reminded her, plunging two fingers inside her without warning.
She stifled a moan, arching her back against the booth. He curled his fingers inside her, finding that spongy spot that made her grip his forearm tightly. The tattoos tensed beneath her nails digging into his skin.
—You’re shaking —he murmured, not stopping the relentless rhythm of his hand—. And I haven’t even started with you.
Someone passed near the booth. She tried to close her legs out of instinct, but his hand on her thigh stopped her, squeezing with authority.
—No —he said simply. One word that sounded like a verdict.
She looked at him for the first time since it began. His light eyes gleamed under the red light, and there was no trace of the man she knew. Only hunger.
—Let them watch —he added—. Let them see who you belong to.
Behind the glass, the couple changed rhythm. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, holding her against the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist, thrusting deep and slow, making her cry out with each movement. The sound reached them filtered, almost ethereal, blending with the club’s low music.
But something shifted in the booth’s atmosphere.
A couple stopped a few meters away. The woman — tall, red-haired, in a dress that barely covered anything — openly watched what his fingers were doing between her thighs. She didn’t hide it. Her eyes roamed the scene with shameless fascination, biting her lip while the man beside her whispered something in her ear.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t even look at them directly. But his mouth curved against her neck in that dangerous smile she was beginning to recognize.
—We have an audience —he murmured, pushing his fingers deeper, curling them with devastating precision.
The man with the redhead — well-dressed, sharp jaw, dark gaze — moved behind her and lifted her dress without ceremony. She leaned forward, hands braced on the railing separating the booths, and he entered her from behind with a firm motion that drew a guttural moan from her. But her eyes never left her. She watched her intently while being fucked, observing every tremor, every gasp, every time his fingers disappeared inside her.
It was like a twisted mirror. Two couples reflecting each other in that dark, pulsing space.
He picked up the pace. His thumb found her clit and began pressing ruthless circles while his fingers kept working inside her with that brutal cadence that was undoing her. She arched her back, gripping his thigh with her nails, and a loud moan escaped her lips — too loud, too real.
The redhead moaned in response, as if the sound had pushed her closer to the edge. Her partner held her hips tightly, thrusting in a rhythm that made the metal railing tremble.
Another man approached from the shadows — alone, drink in hand — and stayed watching. His free hand dropped discreetly to his crotch, adjusting, pressing. He didn’t take his eyes off his fingers disappearing between her open thighs.
—Do you see what you cause? —his voice was a rough whisper against her ear—. They’re all watching you. They all want what I have.
His free hand slid up to her throat, wrapping around it without squeezing. Just holding. Claiming.
—But no one touches you except me.
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Jos retweetledi
Jos retweetledi
Jos retweetledi
Jos retweetledi
