In that moment, I was grateful for the man still gripping my wrists. His touch was grounding, something tangible to focus on as I tried to pull myself back together. My senses felt scrambled, my mind still chasing the fragments of pleasure and overstimulation. Someone nearby muttered something about me barely being able to stand, let alone walk, and despite the haze, I caught a note of genuine concern in his voice. A small, distant part of me appreciated it--was even touched by it. There was something gentle in his tone, almost fatherly.
It was nothing like the part of me that had been front and center for the last... how long? Thirty minutes? An hour? I had no concept of time. If someone had put a gun to my head and demanded I name every man I'd been with tonight, I'd be as good as dead. I had been so eager--eager to please, eager to be the center of attention, eager to push myself to the edge and feel every extreme possible. And now, in this small sliver of stillness, all I could feel was... chaos.
And I hated feeling the chaos.
For too long, it had ruled my life, creeping in where it wasn't wanted, turning simple things into messes that didn't need to exist. I had spent years trying to quiet it, trying to control it. If I hadn't met my husband--the man who would become Sir--I shuddered to think of how careless I might have been. He carried a sense of focus, of planned determination, that I had only ever dreamed of possessing myself.
I bit my lip to keep it from quivering. Suddenly, I no longer wanted a stranger holding me.
"I'm fine," I announced, the words sharper than I intended. I pulled my wrists free, feeling the absence of restraint like a sudden gust of cold air.
The men around me immediately pulled back, their presence shifting into the periphery.
I sat up, forcing my vision to steady on a random spot on the floor as I tucked my hands under my thighs. My throat felt tight, but I swallowed against it, cleared my voice, and spoke the word loud and firm.
"STORM."
A beat of silence. Then, movement--furniture shifting, quick footsteps closing in.
The scent of his cologne reached me first, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. A second later, his hand cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing against my skin as he entered my field of vision. I exhaled, and some unseen weight lifted from my chest.
Sir's voice was low but commanding as he addressed the others. "Give us some space."
I barely registered their departure before his forehead pressed against mine, the warmth of his skin anchoring me further.
"Lisa..."
Hearing my name in his voice cracked something open inside me. The swarm of doubt, the restless, frantic energy in my head--it all began to dissipate. Storm was our version of yellow, our signal that one of us needed immediate attention but didn't want the night to end.
"Lisa," he repeated, softer this time. "What do you need, baby?"
I turned to him fully, cupping his face in return. My fingers traced the line of his jaw as a slow, relieved smile formed on my lips. The tension, the static in my mind, all of it started to fade.
"This," I whispered. "I was getting squirrelly in my head, and I needed it to stop."
Then, quickly, before he could misinterpret, I added, "The squirrelly-ness, not the fucking."
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.
"So you want to continue?" His eyes searched mine, steady, unwavering. "You're sure? Because all this ends the moment you say it does. We get all our stuff, we walk out of here, and we hit up that burger joint on 5th with those fries you love."
At the mere mention of those fries, saliva pooled under my tongue. My smile widened into a grin, but I shook my head. "No, I'm good now. I asked for this, and you made it happen. I don't want to waste it. It was just... all of a sudden too much. It felt like a drop?" I exhaled, shaking my head again, unwilling to let myself spiral back into that feeling. "Besides, I got this plug in once, and I don't think I'll be able to do it again." My humor was returning, my body catching up to the ease in my mind.
Sir smirked, brushing his thumb over my cheek once more. "If you're sure..."
"Yes, my love. I am sure."
His gaze lingered on mine for a moment before he nodded. "Then we'll move on to the last part of the evening." His smirk faded slightly, replaced by something more expectant. "You know what I need you to say."
Of course, I knew. Storm was our equivalent of calling a time-out in any sport or playground game--the moment everything paused until the person who called it was ready to continue. Maybe this wasn't as much of a roller coaster as I had made it out to be.
I straightened, steadying my breath as I met his eyes.
"All clear, Sir."
His lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Good girl."
The warmth of his hand left my face, but before he could pull away completely, I reached for it. He leaned in, one brow arching in silent question.
And at that moment, I realized I already knew what I wanted next.
I had started this evening as a slave to sensation. I wanted to be overwhelmed, taken in every way the circumstances would allow. I had left myself at the mercy of everyone else's decisions, and in that surrender, I was not disappointed. But I was surprised.
There existed a threshold that couldn't be crossed, a limit to the amount of pleasure and pain my body and brain could process and appreciate.
And that... was frustrating.
Sure, I could have let Sir announce to the room that the activities would continue, that we were moving into the final act of the evening and everyone there could jerk off into the tunnel plug in my ass-- but that would just be another instance of someone else holding the reins.
A part of me was done with being passive.
No. The final act--this--would happen on my terms.
I would be the one to trigger the epic ending.
And the audience, the men who had so wondrously performed this entire evening?
None of them would see it coming.
"I'm going to change things up a little bit," I whispered to my husband.
His lips parted, the idea of a question hanging on them, and then, just as quickly, abandoned. The years of our sexual exchanges had built a trust that didn't require words. He knew me, knew the way my mind worked, the way I thrived on anticipation and control just as much as I did surrender. And he trusted, without a doubt, that I wasn't planning anything that hadn't already been discussed, agreed upon, and woven into the fabric of our past adventures.
Instead, he smirked and nodded, the gleam in his eyes shifting--less questioning, more intrigued.
Sir's approval was implicit, but still, the weight of it settled deep in my chest, grounding me in a way that only he could.
I exhaled, my pulse kicking up in that sweet, electric way, and let my own smirk answer him in return.
It was time.
Turning from my husband, I stepped forward as he moved in the opposite direction, his presence shifting into the background. The room stretched before me, humming with anticipation, bodies lingering in the periphery, waiting. But I wasn't looking for them.
I was looking for him.
The first. The one who had used me so thoroughly at the start of the night, who had set the tone for everything that followed. The one whose touch still lingered like a ghost along my scalp, reminiscent in every fist that gripped my hair that night.
And there he was--leaning against the stage, arms folded across his chest, watching. Not eager. Not expectant. Just there, as if my moment of respite had been a mild inconvenience rather than a necessary pause.
The smug bastard.
My chin dipped an inch, my eyes locking onto his, the shift in my gaze unmistakable. What had been soft, submissive moments ago turned sharp, laced with something darker, something feral. If he thought I was done--if any of them thought I was done--he was about to learn just how wrong he was.
I smiled. My hand rose, forefinger extended as if to curse the man at the end of it. I pointed at him very clearly.
His hand came to his chest in feigned surprise. He mouthed the word, Me?
"Yes, you," I said while nodding. "I need you to come take this seat right next to me....please?"
I'd allowed him to use me, to invade my throat repeatedly, choke me and deprive me of oxygen by thrusting his cock as he pulled me forward by my hair. And here I was, beckoning him to return and do it again.
Though maybe not the same way.
I watched as he pushed off the stage, his movements slow, deliberate--a sensual saunter that carried the weight of his confidence. He knew something had shifted, that the energy between us was no longer the same. But curiosity was a powerful thing, and he was far too intrigued to resist. I understood. A room full of gorgeous men, full of sexual prowess and skill. And here I am, the only woman, singling you out for personal attention?
My smile never wavered, even as I tracked the subtle tension in his body, the way every fiber of his legs, torso, and arms activated in anticipation. He was preparing himself, bracing for whatever I had planned.
He thought he was ready. And that? That was adorable.
