Lana wasn't looking for intimacy.
Not when she was sliding her feet into knee-high stiletto boots that whispered sex in classic leather. The perfume on her wrists and neck was subtle: a hint of musk, a dab of amber. She wore a thin slip dress of dark red over a lithe frame honed from yoga and running.
Heads turned when she exited her Manhattan apartment building. She paid them no attention. There was only one thought in her mind as she slipped the tip into the doorman's hands. Moments later, a sleek car pulled up to the curb with a driver decked out in a light gray uniform.
As silent as a robot, he opened the door for her. She slipped inside with bored disinterest on her face. She gazed blindly out of the window, sighing inwardly. There was nothing but that same monotony around her. The people may dress differently, but they were all the same. Random faces with no other purpose than to serve and be served. Like drones, they existed only to carry on with the tasks of the hive, the buzz of industry.
And though she'd profited through inheritance greatly from such work, her disdain for it all simmered underneath her skin. It was all pretentious. A beautiful, intricately carved lie glossed over with cosmopolitan glitter.
Lana's lip curled at the thought. God, what she would give to feel something. Anything than the throttling embrace of this fake world with its fake people. The ones who smiled at her and shook her hand were only after her wealth or her status. Still others wanted her as a stepping stone to bigger stars of their own.
It was a game that sapped the life out of its players until they were just as cold as calculating as the next.
But none of these thoughts were on her face when the car slowed to a stop. Instead, there was only the familiar nothingness. Hollow within her alabaster skin, she exited the car, all the while feeling as though she were nothing more than an animated mannequin.
She was in search of the one thing that would make her whole, if only for a moment.
The red awning beckoned. Lana slinked past another doorman and into the black doors beyond. Just inside was a small bar, lit with red and gold.
It was known in some circles as a gentleman's club, one of the last relics of an old New York elite. The bar and chairs were elegantly black, adorned with white marble tables sporting tall beige candles. The servers wore black and white, dressed from another era of slicked hair and French decadence.
And then there were the gentlemen themselves.
Fifty or so men were there, engaged in various pursuits. Some spoke of business while cementing contacts. Others gambled at discreet card tables tucked into the corners. A few chuckled over brandies. But the casual observer would never mistake these men for the average. They each held a distinguished air about them, the product of impeccable backgrounds.
Lana coolly noticed that pairs of eyes locked onto her as she entered unannounced. She sashayed straight to the bar where a tall man with black hair stood. He engaged an older man in boisterous discussion, unaware that he was being casually observed.
She ordered a drink, then leaned towards his ear.
"I am yours for this evening. I only ask that we depart from here momentarily."
Raymond's stare was calculating as he turned from his conversation. "What makes you think I'll go with you?" he asked in a low voice.
"Because I need a fuck and you want to give me one." She said it slowly, deliberately drawing out the moment.
He turned back towards his companion. "Apologies, Paul. We will have to continue this at another time."
Paul lifted and eyebrow, but nodded all the same. "Best of luck to you." He wandered across the room with one hand still holding onto a brandy.
Once he left, Raymond let his eyes settle on the face beside him. "I usually don't go for your type."
"And what type is that?"
"Desperate."
She laughed over her martini. "Do I seem desperate to you? I assure you I'm not. I'm merely interested in some of your time."
That much was true. He was lean in the way she liked with a sleek aristocratic face. Bewitching blue eyes dominated her, undressed her until she felt wonderfully exposed. Lana nearly purred when he grazed his knuckles along her arm.
"Let's go," he said.
Just like that. The play was on. He began walking out of the club. She followed.
Raymond had only to nod once before his driver pulled to the curb in a sleek limo.
But just after the doors shut and they were on their way, he surprised her. Raymond reached over and pressed his hand against her pussy, finding it exposed and waiting underneath the red slip. Without preamble, he shoved two fingers into her. A gasp erupted from her throat.
"Is this what you need?" he asked.
Lana closed her eyes, pressing a palm against the window as the warmth spread through her. "Yes. God, yes."
He pulled his fingers out with a gentle slowness that caused her to shiver. Then he put them in his mouth. "Sweet," he said. "How can something so sweet be denied?"
Lana's eyes glazed over. She looked at him through a haze of desire so strong it caused pearls of come to trickle from her pussy. "More, please, more."
"Not yet."
He made her wait until they'd driven to his hotel, enjoying the way she squirmed in the seat biting her bottom lip. He wondered idly if it was all an act, this heat she emitted. There were enough high class women out there who wanted to walk on the wild side.
Most of them were as used as a common street whore and no better in bed. He'd pegged her as another of these types until she spoke. There had been none of the usual flirtation with which he was accustomed. It was just raw exposure. As if she held onto some measure of vulnerability under the brazen tone. None one women he'd ever met would have spoken as plainly as she had. It was refreshing. And damnably arousing.
By the time they reached his suite, Lana was trembling. But he still did not touch her again. Instead, he closed the door then offered her a chair in the immaculately furnished room.
"No. I don't want to sit."
"As you like." He chose an armchair, reclining in its velvet comfort. And just as the silence fell like a curtain around then, he barked out the order: "Take off your dress."
Her eyes flashed with amusement. "I want you to take it off me."
He waited, eyes never wavering from hers. In their depths she sensed the domination she sought, the iron hand that would extract the tension from her.
When she was sure he would not move to undress her, she began to peel the red dress from her body on her own. Beneath the material she wore nothing. The slope of her breasts rose high and firm, topped with mauve nipples already hardened. Her skin was shockingly flawless, smooth and yet sharply carved.
Raymond had expected to see the lashes from past experiences. The marks of a whip across the buttocks or other marks of painful pleasure. The discreet line of tracks from heroin along the inner thigh. A piercing on the labia or clitoris as a means of rebellion from the constraints of well-bed life. But there was nothing except the supple, naked flesh quivering with need. Not even a blasphemous tattoo.
It made her fascinating. Like an abstract painting he studied to find meaning. She was not what he expected. This would be no average fuck, he knew. There was something in her that spoke to the primal within him. His dick hardened.
"Touch yourself."
"Please," she begged.
"Touch yourself," he repeated.
Raymond watched her delicate hands glide along the flat span of stomach towards her folds. Tensed as her diamond-clad fingers explored her inner pathway while she gasped aloud. For long minutes, he enjoyed the sight of her pleasuring herself unabashedly, fingers shoved deep into her pussy as if she were reaching for something she couldn't quite grasp.
Lana was about to bring herself to a climax.
And just before the she reached the pinnacle, he left the armchair and dragged her to the pale cream carpet. His mouth covered her pussy, devouring every drop of her arousal, suckling the shaved lips until her clitoris throbbed beneath his tongue.
