We stepped out of the Hotel Nelligan just after nine. The air still carried a late-March bite—sharp enough to wake the skin, but not cold enough to make it retreat.

The leash was velvet. Black, like Shavonne’s dress. Light, like breath. I remember it tightening—not a tug, just a reminder—and I followed.

Montréal breathed differently at night. Streetlamps pooled light like spilled honey across the cobblestones, slick with the memory of rain. The city didn’t blink. She watched. And when Shavonne walked, she didn’t need to hurry. The night parted for her.

Her heels clicked with intent—God, how they clicked. Like time counting down. Like strong calves and decisive steps spelling out sex. She was impossible not to follow. And I belonged to her.

I walked half a step behind—boots silent, collar high. Heads turned. No one spoke. Montréal had seen worse. Or better. Depending on your appetite. I met eyes and didn’t look away. There was no shame. No doubt. I was hers, and everyone saw it.

Most approved. Some lingered too long—trying to decipher the leash, wondering how far it reached. Wondering if they could pull.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Her fingers looped the leash with casual authority like it had always been there. Like I’d always been hers.

And I walked through the city not like I’d surrendered, but like I’d arrived.

We turned off a main street onto something smaller, dimmer. A red door without a name. Just a glimmer of light behind tinted glass and the low, heartbeat thump of music too distant to follow.

Shavonne knocked once.

The city exhaled. The door opened.

The man who answered had that look—bored but sharp, shoulders built under a tailored coat, eyes trained to recognize danger or desire. Maybe both. He took us in at a glance, but his gaze lingered on me. The collar. The lipstick. The leash.

Shavonne stepped forward, confident and composed. Her voice low, unmistakably French—not flirtation, but command. Something about the list. Discretion. Rules. She slid her wallet free with the same hand that held my leash, never letting go.

I didn’t listen. That wasn’t my role. I wasn’t supposed to.

I dropped my gaze—not in shame, but in understanding. This was the line in the script—the cue that said I knew my place. I let my weight settle in my boots. No posing. Just present. A body in red. Waiting.

My eyes hovered just above his shoes, watching the hem of Shavonne’s dress shift as she moved.

He was still watching me. I didn’t flinch. Let him.

Bits of the conversation caught in my ears.

Américaine. Étudiante. Dette à payer.

“How old?” he asked. It was directed at me.

Shavonne didn’t turn. She pulled him back with a flick of her voice.

“Ton affaire est avec moi. Elle n’est pas une source d’inquiétude.”

This wasn’t about who I was anymore.

It was about what I was.

And tonight, what I was belonged to her.

I let the sounds blur—her voice smoothing over velvet permissions, names not spoken aloud, rules exchanged like kisses behind hands. Montreal didn’t ask for explanations. Montreal just asked if you were willing. It was the kind of question that might once have made me hesitate—stop, wonder, think twice. But that part of me, the one that still negotiated, had switched off.

Maybe it was the red dress. Maybe it happened in the elevator. Maybe somewhere between the highway and the city.

God—maybe it was at a decision between donuts, coffee, and a road sign.

The doorman looked at me again. Not cruelly. Just curious, like someone studying a sculpture they couldn’t afford. Then he stepped aside. The door opened wider. She stepped in. And I had nowhere to go but to follow.

The air clung to my skin like sweat left too long after a second shower. Not clean—curated. Everything about the place reeked of taste pretending not to try: cigars, velvet, aftershave thick enough to bruise. Boutique suits. Slicked-back hair. Expensive liquor nipped, never drunk.

Men with money. Men with the kind of power that buys rooms like this—and the silence inside them. I looked at their faces: wrinkled, gleaming, bored. Possibly the kind of men who signed checks for libraries or bragged about Ivy League daughters over single malts. Possibly the kind who knew my name from faculty lists and wouldn’t say a word if they recognized me—just took another drag and watched.

The music pulsed low, like a heartbeat beneath a tailored suit. Not loud. Not young. Nothing that called attention to itself. Just enough to press under the skin and remind you this place was alive—even if no one moved unless they meant to.

Shavonne moved like she was being watched—because she was. But she didn’t shrink. She absorbed it. Owned it. She walked with intent sharpened by silence.

I followed, still half a step behind, leash taut but not pulling. My breath thick in my throat.

I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t proud, either—not in the usual sense. But I wore my body with poise. I wore the wet between my legs like a secret worth keeping. I wore their stares—full of want and unspent authority—with a kind of quiet honor.

I felt like the centerpiece of an auction. Not nervous. Not ashamed. Just offered.

She led me to the bar and took her seat with a queen’s poise, granting me the attention of a servant. I remained standing, breath tethered to velvet and expectation.

“I can smell your cunt,” she whispered, eyes forward. “Try not to look like you’re enjoying this.”

The bartender was young, tight-lipped, his gaze flicking to the collar around my neck and quickly away. Shavonne ordered in flawless French—red wine for herself, absinthe for me. No question. No glance in my direction.

She didn’t offer me a seat. She didn’t need to.

When the drinks arrived, she turned just enough for the green glass to catch the bar’s low light.

“Drink fast,” she said, voice low and hot, tugging me closer by the leash.

I didn’t smile. I drank. The absinthe burned like betrayal laced with curiosity. It slipped between my lips like a secret I hadn’t earned—bitter, biting, reverent.

Her finger traced up my thigh, slid beneath the hem of my dress, and found what it was looking for. Wet. Willing.

She nodded for another drink, fingers still inside me. Casual. Clinical. Testing whether the liquor ran straight through me—if it pooled at my cunt like the rest of me had.

She needn’t worry.

My cunt was already drunk.

Around us, the room didn’t buzz—it observed. Men with teeth behind their smirks. Women on leashes, on pedestals, or somehow both. Laughter tucked into corners like secrets.

And me—wet beneath a dress I hadn’t chosen, collared by a woman who knew how to weaponize silence, sipping absinthe like it might explain what I’d become.

A young waiter approached, head slightly bowed, hands folded like he served confessions more often than drinks.

“Monsieur Delacourte vous verra bien.”

His voice barely carried, but it didn’t have to. Shavonne understood. She always did.

She didn’t look at me—just took one last sip of her wine, then stood. The leash slackened for a beat before tightening again in her hand, gentle but firm. A reminder.

“Let’s be polite,” she said—not to me, but to the space between us, as if the leash could deliver her instruction straight to my spine.

I stood. Quietly. Obediently. The absinthe lingered on my tongue—soft, green, whispering things I hadn’t yet decided to believe.

I didn’t ask who Delacourte was.

I didn’t need to.

Men like that don’t require introductions. They expect your name to come with a price tag—and a silence clause.

The waiter turned. Shavonne followed. I walked in step with the sound of my own heartbeat.

The hallway beyond the bar was narrower, darker. The kind of space where rules bend without being spoken.

Shavonne’s heels clicked ahead of me. Once. Twice. Then silence as they met carpet.

My boots were soft-soled, tight around my calves. They made no sound at all. I followed without presence, but not without purpose.

Mr. Delacourte’s office reeked of bad taste, bad manners, and the stale air of a man who’d gotten everything he pointed at for longer than time had memory.

He sat at a poker table, smoking a cigar. Late sixties, maybe. His skin looked like parchment stretched over decades of indulgence and entitlement. Four other men sat with him, and one by one, their eyes turned toward Shavonne—and then to me.

Mr. Delacourte didn’t stand. Of course not. Men like him hadn’t stood for anything in decades.

He merely tilted his cigar from his mouth and exhaled—slow, bored, unbothered. His eyes, pale and unhurried, landed on Shavonne with the kind of recognition reserved for royalty—or very expensive mistakes.

Shavonne nodded once. Elegant. Unshaken. Her hand gave the leash a light tug, pulling me a single step forward. Not hard. Not sharp. Just... decisive.

Five pairs of eyes followed the leash. From my throat, across the collar, past the red fabric clinging to my hips like confession.

She didn’t let go. Just stepped aside—an unspoken unveiling—and let the tension in the leash draw me further into view.

“This one,” she said, her voice calm, edged with a grin you could hear more than see, “has been trained for obedience. But not silence.”

The men watched. Smoke curled around their stares. No one spoke.

Shavonne circled me once. Slow. Casual. Still holding the leash.

“She’s American. A freshman. Made freshman mistakes. Owed the wrong people the wrong kind of money. Poor thing.”

She stopped behind me, slid a finger down the curve of my spine. Stopped just at the small of my back.

Then, delicately, she hooked a finger under one strap of my dress and let it slip down my arm. Then the other. The fabric sighed off my shoulders. Fell to the floor. My breasts bared, my posture steady.

No whistles. No claps. This wasn’t a dorm party. It was a show.

An auction.

She spun me around, my back toward the men, then slid her leg between mine to part them. A hand on my shoulder. Down I went—bent forward without ceremony. Her fingers teased my thigh, found the hem of my dress, and peeled it up.

I almost whimpered. They had to see how wet I was.

Mr. Delacourte finally spoke—one word. “Combien?”

Shavonne didn’t answer. She offered.

She led me to him and pressed me into his lap—no fanfare, no flourish. Just a silent transaction. Power exchanging hands. His fingers found my neck—rough like weathered leather, thick with cigar smoke and the sting of old Cognac. He turned my chin, studied me like something imported and rare, then let his tongue drag along my throat. It didn’t linger. It claimed.

His hands followed. Down. Not slow, not rushed. Just certain. They cupped my breasts—hard. Not cruel. Not kind. Just full of decision.

My breath hitched.

He moved lower. Ribs. Stomach. Thigh. Then back up. And stopped.

Wet.

Right at my cunt.

He didn’t press—just rested his fingers there.

A sound slipped from my lips. A whimper. Small. Real. Not protest. Not pleasure. Recognition.

“Excellent,” he rasped—hoarse, aged, hungry. “Chère.”

Shavonne grinned. Panther. Poised and full of menace.

“Chambre cinq cent huit,” she purred. Her French soft as silk, sharpened like a fang. “Votre hôtel. Tous les frais payés. Un bonus. Disons... deux mille ? Américain.”

She tugged the leash—just enough. I rose off his lap, legs slow to follow, her hand still steady at my throat.

She turned without a word. Walked like she owned everything behind her. Hips swaying. Victory in each step.

Maybe she did.

I was still feeling his hands—phantom bruises on skin not yet marked.

“You can pull your dress up now, babe,” she said, not even looking back. “Momentarily, of course.”

I did. My fingers fumbled.

“What the fuck just happened?” I whispered—half to her, half to the hallway.

She kissed me. Bit my lip. Let her eyes find mine with that same lazy dominance that said she didn’t have to ask for anything. She already owned it.

“I just whored you out to old money,” she said, almost gleeful. “Suite paid in full. Two grand in pocket change.”

Another kiss. Softer this time.

Then, close to my lips, her breath curling with laughter: “You really should thank me.”

I’d thank her later.

This was the second time she’d arranged a gangbang. Just for me. No—not just for me. She thrived in it. Got off on it. She’d watched me in the fall, came around her own hand while I was split open across strangers.

Not with jealousy. Not with possession.

Something else. Something between desire and awe.

Was this a test? Or a trigger? Not of me—but of her. Could she subdue her desire without surrender? Could she find pleasure in my pleasure? Or in my ruin?

Or was the truth darker?

That her desire wasn’t for me—but to be me.

As she unlocked the door, she turned. Her eyes were easy—almost tender.

“Just say the word, and we’ll jump town,” she said. “But it has to be now.”

I was too deep in the game. Too hot to stop. Also—I’d never fucked old money.

You should try everything once. If only to study it.

“The game ends when it ends,” I said. “I didn’t think you were the kind of girl who doesn’t finish what she starts.”

The suite welcomed us with seasoned decadence. I caught a glimpse of the girl in the mirror—she looked calm. Ready.

Shavonne ordered a bottle of wine. And more absinthe. Enough to let my legs go comfortably numb. Enough for the heat to settle low in my belly. Enough that I barely noticed the soft knock at the door.

“Entrez,” she purred.

I sat pretty in the deep chair, a slow spin inside my head like a song wrapping itself around my thoughts.

Five men entered. Mid-fifties to maybe seventy. Wedding bands. Suits that smelled like wealth preserved in cedar. Accents heavy with disdain for the English language.

“Tout est permis?” Mr. Delacourte asked.

“Pas de violence. Pas d’étranglement. Aussi fort que tu veux,” she replied, handing him the leash.

He settled into the deep couch opposite me but didn’t tug the leash. Not yet. Just held it loose between two fingers, like something ornamental. He studied me—spread me with his eyes—and my thighs listened.

“Est-ce qu’elle parle français?”

“Non,” Shavonne replied. Crisp. Certain. Unapologetic.

His gaze lingered, head tilted slightly, like he was examining a painting he hadn’t yet decided to own. Then, casually, as if it meant nothing—meant everything—he spoke again.

“Remove the dress.”

His accent was so thick it curled around my spine and fogged my mind, teasing the meat of me so tender it whimpered. I hadn’t known a whisper could fuck.

I stood slowly, hands grazing the sides of my thighs. The room felt warmer now, or maybe I did. I reached for the straps and let them fall—first one, then the other. But the dress clung stubbornly, like it needed permission too. Tight over my hips. Molded to my skin. I had to tug—not with haste, but deliberate effort, inch by inch—peeling it off like something ceremonial.

It hit the floor with a soft sigh.

I stood there—collar gleaming, breasts bare, legs long and waiting in fishnets. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The space between his silence and my skin said enough.

Now he tugged. Not hard—just firm. Enough to send me down without question. The leash guided me, and I let it. Knees to carpet, crawling toward his feet like I belonged nowhere else. He didn’t move. Didn’t shift to make room. Just parted his knees as I was pulled between them, face down in cloth tailored for only him. I could smell the cologne—aged, sharp—but beneath it: heat. Man. Money. Power.

I breathed through the fabric, pressed against a cock that was used to taking whatever it wanted. I felt it stir. Harden. Acknowledge me.

I tugged at the belt—slow, ritualistic. Undid the zipper. My fingers moved with the kind of reverence that disgusts some and delights others. I pulled his pants down just enough. No words. Just the hush of fabric and the weight of their eyes.

The other four men stood around us, silent. Watching.

Behind me, Shavonne had taken my chair. She sat like she’d always been there—like the furniture adjusted for her. Crossed legs, elegance incarnate. One hand near her mouth, lazy with anticipation. She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched.

I was done sitting.

Old man cock.

He was smaller than I expected. Maybe it was the suit, the cigar, the drag of his voice that had tricked me into imagining something... more. More impressive. More dangerous. Maybe I needed him to be larger to justify the authority he carried like cologne. But what I found was age wrapped in confidence. Not size. Stiff, not imposing. Hard, but not heavy.

His balls were loose, skin thin and veined like a crumpled memory. I kissed them first. Not out of affection. Strategy. A slow, practiced sweep of my tongue—soft enough to humble, precise enough to earn attention. My hand moved up his shaft, slow and deliberate, mapping the truth of him against the fiction he wore.

He groaned. Just a bit. Approval or habit—I didn’t care.

Why wouldn’t he approve? I don’t know how well Canadian girls suck cock, but Southern girls? We learn to wrap lips around power like it’s scripture. And Harvard girls—we make This wasn’t about pleasure. Not his. Not mine.

It was a study—of power and money. Of who really holds the leash, and who only pretends. Of who draws the line—and where. Who gives, who takes. Who receives, and who pretends it was their idea all along.

I’ve always been a brilliant study.

And I always pass my exams.

He tasted like cock. Maybe more so than most—salt and skin and something older. Habit. Wealth. Power that hadn’t been questioned in decades. I parted my lips and let him in. Just a taste. Just a tease. A flick of tongue. A breath held just long enough to make him lean in.

A tickle. Twice.

The third time, I swallowed him.

Deep. Slow. Unbothered. I felt the shift—the hitch in his breath, the twist of his fingers into my hair like instinct taking over where arrogance left off. That sound—the gasp—wasn’t surprise. It was surrender.

And it came faster than I expected.

He was mine before I even worked up a breath.

It worked—brilliantly. He pulled the leash, dragging my mouth off him and my body onto him. I straddled him like sin incarnate, wet velvet grinding against the starch and musk of his tailored slacks....