My husband had yet another business trip to Europe. Endless meetings drained him before he even stepped foot back into our hotel room. Berlin stretched before me, a city of contrasts—stoic history and reckless indulgence intertwined like lovers in a clandestine affair. I spent the day wandering through Museum Island, letting its political relics whisper their secrets into my ears. But the real intrigue was yet to unfold.
Lunches with his business partners became a routine I endured, half-engaged in their discussions of market dominance and financial conquest. But on this trip, one of them brought his wife. Penelope. A name from another era, adorned with three others after it, draped in aristocratic lineage. British, poised, and devastatingly beautiful. She carried herself with the kind of effortless grace that suggested she had never known a single moment of self-doubt. I wanted to drink her in, slowly, decadently, like a forbidden vintage I had no business indulging in.
She was kind to me—kind in the way women are when they see each other, truly see each other, beyond the performances for men. When the “boys” steered the conversation away from us, she subtly reeled me back in, her voice like silk brushing against my skin. Her husband, distracted, turned to her briefly. Do you have the AMEX? he asked, the words clipped, dismissive. When she nodded, he gestured vaguely at me. Why don’t you two go shop for a bit?
I have a PhD. I could have held my own in their ruthless financial theater. But instead, I let the slight roll off me like water off a feathered back.
“I think our husbands mean well,” she murmured as we entered a boutique. Her voice was low, velvety. I smiled but said nothing.
The store had one fitting room. A luxurious alcove, hidden behind thick curtains.
“I won’t say anything if you don’t,” she whispered, a playful smirk teasing her lips before she winked.
Despite my tanned complexion, I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. Next to her vintage 1920s elegance, I felt striking, foreign. Her porcelain skin and auburn hair against my deep curls and sun-kissed flesh—our contrast was breathtaking. Inside the fitting room, I willed myself not to stare, but it was impossible. When she slipped out of her dress, left standing in only the barest lace, I noticed the bruises—small, deliberate.
She caught my gaze and winked again. “Vigorous finance boys,” she murmured, her voice a secret shared between us. The sweetness of her smile only made me want her more.
She paid. I protested. We drank wine and parted ways.
That evening, my husband returned, murmured exhaustion against my hair, and collapsed into sleep. I stared at the ceiling, restless.
“I’m going for a walk,” I announced.
He mumbled a half-hearted Have fun.
The Berlin air was crisp, fresh, but not cold. I relished the solitude, my heels clicking against the pavement in the quieter, manicured part of the city. My phone was a temptation, a portal. I typed out a message.
Darling, I’m in Berlin and truly need intensity… Where to?
The reply came swiftly, blunt in that signature German way: an address, and a single note—Ask for Izzy.
I took a cab, ignoring the growing pulse of anticipation in my stomach. The entrance was inconspicuous, but once inside, the bass thrummed through my body, vibrating against my bones. A dimly lit underground club, the air thick with smoke, sex, and something electric. I walked through, feeling the weight of their stares. My mind flickered to a familiar narrative—racist fucks—but then I caught my reflection. The black blazer, the red Manolos, the navy blue dress that whispered of old Hollywood. I don’t belong here.
But I wanted to.
I found someone who seemed to work there, spoke in my broken German. Ich suche Izzy.
More stairs. More doors. A different world.
This space was refined, intimate. Leather, latex, silk. The scent of expensive liquor and raw desire. Izzy greeted me, her Parisian accent like a melody from my past.
“Liva said you are familiar. You know the rules.”
I nodded. The truth? I barely remembered. It had been years since I stepped into this world, a relic of my youth, locked away. But some things never truly leave you. The hunger. The need to witness.
Rooms, each with their own temptations. A woman hung from hooks embedded in her back, her expression blissful. A masked man knelt in another, his entire body taut with anticipation. A silver tray was presented to me—champagne and cocaine. I accepted the drink, ignored the powder. Uppers and I had never mixed well.
Then I heard it.
Moans. A melody that called to something primal in me.
I followed the sound, drifting like a moth toward the flame. A room opened before me—soft candlelight casting shadows over tangled bodies. Four couples, moving in synchronized pleasure. And in the center, suspended like the most exquisite sculpture, was Penelope.
I exhaled sharply, pulse hammering in my throat.
The man spinning her gently was not her husband.
Yet, her wedding ring glinted under the dim glow.
She saw me. Our eyes locked.
I expected shame. Instead, she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that coiled around my spine and tightened.
Her body was art, draped in nothing but ropes, her pale skin interrupted only by the violet bruises, perfectly placed, hidden beneath the modesty of everyday clothing. The man at the ropes tugged, spreading her legs wide.
And I had front-row seats to the most beautiful part of Penelope.
At the time, I did not have much experience with Shibari. I was an admirer, drawn to the contrast of red rope against pale skin. The audience around her sat enraptured, children at the feet of a master storyteller, their gazes devouring the silent tale of her body, her endurance, her beauty.
I could not bring myself to sit.
Instead, I stood, holding my glass of champagne, locked in her gaze. The rigger noticed and smiled—quintessentially German, dressed in military-inspired attire, his blue eyes as sharp as a blade. He approached me, the weight of his presence thrilling and dangerous. When he reached for my chin, I met his touch with resistance.
“You did not ask for my permission,” I said firmly.
His smile deepened, devilish. “A kitten that bites,” he murmured in German before switching effortlessly to French.
“You like what you see?”
I nodded, my lips slightly parted.
“Would you like to help me?”
My eyes must have gleamed with excitement because his smile widened. He led me toward the ring, where Penelope hung, exquisite and waiting.
She smelled like sweat and lavender, an intoxicating mix that heightened my already simmering desire. The rigger addressed her softly, "Pina."
"Yes, sir?" she replied, her voice a melodic whisper.
"Would you like to welcome our new friend?"
Penelope smiled, and I felt the heat between us like an unspoken invitation. He knelt before her, pressing a reverent kiss against her skin before turning to me. "Would you like a taste?"
I nodded, then took a slow sip of champagne before leaning forward, anticipation thickening the air between us.
I reached to kiss Penelope, sinking to my knees before her, when the rigger pulled the rope taut.
“Can I tie your hands behind your back?” he asked, voice deep and expectant.
I shook my head, the thrill dancing along my spine. “You can hold them there, but no rope,” I murmured. “I promise, I won’t touch your muse.”
His strong hands wrapped around my wrists, the firm grip both a restraint and an invitation. He leaned in, inhaling the scent of my skin, pleased. One hand tangled in my hair, pulling it aside as he whispered against my neck.
“It’s okay,” Penelope’s voice floated between us, sultry and reassuring. “Rubens is trustworthy.”
And then her lips met mine.
She tasted of brandy, something dark and intoxicating. The audience remained still, watching, as though we were the final brushstrokes of a masterpiece. My arousal surged, heightened by the eyes upon us.
With one hand, the rigger worked the ropes, lowering Penelope just enough so we could remain close, bodies nearly aligned. I let my hands remain behind my back, honoring the boundaries set in silent agreement. Then Penelope moaned—a delicious, drawn-out sound.
My eyes fluttered open, and there he was, behind her, his hands trailing down her thighs, inching toward the heat of her. He was working her, expertly, deliberately. Our eyes met, his gaze smoldering, wicked.
A slow smile spread across his lips.
What was happening right now?
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