Three days in Tokyo Day 1
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The Night Court Series
by Anya W. Vossand
Chapter 1: Hunted
This club is unlike anything else. I’ve danced at goth clubs, raver clubs, even a strip club once (I wouldn’t recommend it — too many creeps in sweatpants for me). But this? I’ve never danced in a place like this.
Nestled into the heart of New York City, Obscurity is a club that’s beyond exclusive. Membership is by invitation only, and getting to know any of the members is really difficult. That crowd, well… they live a very reclusive lifestyle. And they’re patient, so no amount of begging will convince them that you’re anything more than a nuisance.
Of course, there’s another way in.
A club like this requires a very particular kind of entertainment. The performers need to be very fit, very beautiful, and very open-minded. You never really know who’s going to take an interest in you or why. Maybe they just want to see you dance. Maybe they want to ply you with drinks and keep you around for your company all night. Maybe they want to fuck. Maybe they want to do something a little darker. You have to be ready for it, and you have to really want it.
My credentials are a little unusual — the circles I run in rarely overlap with this crowd, but because I’m so slender and small I’ve been hired on as a curio. It’s not that I can’t dance. I can kill it up on stage with my fire poi and my barely-there little black leather ensemble. I can also take a lot of punishment, so to speak, and I heal quickly, which is another plus I can hold over my coworkers. Plus, the hiring staff can’t be impossibly fussy. They hire good people, and those people tend to be seduced away to more private engagements with the various members long-term, which means a highish rate of turnover. Every so often they have to replenish the ranks. And that’s how I got in.
Tonight’s my first night. I’m scheduled to do a set, then get a quick bite to eat, then go mingle. No sweat. I’ve done this sort of thing for a few years now. Well, not in places quite this nice. As I wait in the wings, I can feel the pulsing music from the current dancer rumbling through my boots. She’s good. She’s really good, and I have to snap out of it when the music ends, because now I’m on.
Okay, Emelia. Let’s do this.
My favorite song starts to play, a hard, industrial remix of an already hard, industrial band, and out I stride, fuck me boots gleaming in the light of my flaming poi, which hang from chains I’m holding with my bare hands. Once the music gets going then so do I, whirling and curving the poi in the air to leave trails of fire all around my slender, pale body. My blond, shoulder-length hair is held back in a pony tail to keep it from catching. Dark, gothy makeup makes my delicate features seem a bit more fearsome, and with the strobe lights and the fog machine I know I look amazing.
The crowd is really into it, too. I mean, as into it as they ever get. You won’t get a surging dance floor here, but you will get a lack of idle conversation as they focus only on you, if you’re worth it. And for quite a few of them I seem to be. That makes me happy, and at the end I douse my poi in a ready water bucket, bow to the audience, and sassily flick at the gunmetal dog tag I’ve been wearing with a black-painted nail as I give the audience one last smile and saunter off.
While I’m confident and in the zone on stage, afterward? Afterward I’m a jittery wreck. I’m excited that my first performance ever at Obscurity went so well, but I can’t sit still. I down some water, have a sandwich, go take a shower and change my outfit, and still I’m restless. Well, no time like the present to go and mingle.
The next few acts have already gone by and I watch for a little bit, wandering around in those same black fuck-me boots, but with a gentler ensemble of black thigh-high pantyhose, a black miniskirt, and a black camisole over a red and black lacy bra. Now my honey-colored hair is down, framing my cute face that’s done up more approachably. There’s a difference between stage makeup and regular makeup, after all.
The layout of the place is like a labyrinth when you get away from the main stage. Hallways lead outward like the legs of a spider to other lounge areas or private stages. Luckily there are maps of the whole place in the stairwells, because I have to sometimes check just where I am as I make the rounds. One red-carpeted, matte-black painted corridor looks like the next, and all the iron lighting sconces with red bulbs look the same. Elegant and beautiful, but the same. And there’s three floors — the main floor, the second floor, and the basement. For some reason I’ve been told never to go in the basement, and given how intense this place is, well, I’m happy to avoid it.
Every once in a while I’ll take a moment to clear away a glass here or there, or take an order, but generally the members aren’t very demanding. They’re almost all voyeurs, enjoying the sights of the young and beautiful performing up on stage. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed that all I’m putting out are drinks. I’m not a prude or anything, and I’ve had all my shots. Plus, it’s not like this crowd is really prone to disease.
There’s about two hours of clearing glasses when I decide to take a break in one of the empty lounge rooms. We all get two fifteen minute breaks to do whatever we want as long as we don’t upset the members, so I sprawl on a cushy leather couch, flip on the stereo to one of their various Nails mixes, and zone out.
And I swear that I’ve only closed my eyes for a few seconds, because when I open them I see a strange man looming over me, making me I startle and yelp. A cool, slender hand covers my mouth, urging me to lie back down on the seat cushions as the man chuckles. My green eyes take him in, my pupils dilated a little with a mix of nerves and arousal. I mean, Jesus, this guy is amazingly attractive — clean-shaven Slavic features, black hair trimmed neatly short, icy blue eyes, and brooding, dark brows. Oh, and all of this on a slender, athletic frame dressed in a black suit. The only other bit of color is his cobalt blue shirt.
A glint of metal enters my field of vision, and before I can do anything to stop it, the silver handle of an elegant cane presses to my thigh, the metal meeting my bare flesh with a hiss like steam. I buck and cry out in pain into his palm, gripping at his sleeve, but thankfully he moves the cane away quickly, letting go of my face as he says in a rich Russian accent ‘So, it is true. Hmm.’
Swallowing, I shuffle back towards the corner of the couch, trying to keep an eye on him even as I check out the burn mark on my thigh. It’s not much more than a little raised welt, as if something red-hot had touched my skin. Even now the mark is fading and the pain is going away.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sir…’ I mumble, but almost immediately the curve of the silver cane handle is in front of my face, and I instinctively crush my back harder against the sofa, my head tilting back and away from the horrible stuff. ‘Okay! Yes, you’re right!’ My voice is shaky and girlish, my breath coming light over my rapid heartbeat. I breathe a little easier as he pulls the cane away and strides over to the door, shutting it.
And locking it.
My pulse spikes again, and I try to curl up a little where I’m sitting, more afraid of him than anything else. I’m not at all sure what what to say, afraid he’ll shove all that silver in my face again, when at last he slowly strides around behind the couch I’m sitting on. ‘Tell me your name.’ Bossy, much? Before I can help myself, I wrinkle my nose and look up at him, and as a slight concession he smiles. ‘Pazhalsta, Schchenok.’
Well, that sounded kind of polite. ‘Emelia, Sir.’ As he circles around me I track him with my eyes and ears as my nose takes in his scent. It’s clean. Powdery, like bird feathers or cat fur. Masculine too, but per
fumed with high-quality cologne.
‘Da. And how old are you, Emelia?’ There’s a wicked look in his eyes, like he’s hoping I’m obscenely young.
Swallowing again, I say ‘I’m twenty one, Sir.’
‘Hmmm’ he hums thoughtfully, tipping up my chin with a cool, curled finger. ‘You could pass as much younger.’
I smile saucily, licking my lip. ‘That’s the idea, Sir.’
That pleases him. His smile darkens, his gorgeous blue eyes narrowing as his fingers slide from my chin to caress along my cheek and down to my neck. ‘Have you ever serviced a member here, Emelia?’ he whispers deeply, coming to sit down beside me.
The room is so quiet besides the music. The walls must be sound-proofed. That thought does a number on my nerves, and I shiver, shaking my head. ‘Not yet.’
His nails just caress over my skin, tracing the lines of my throat and collarbone. ‘Would you like to?’
My cheeks heat up, and I whimper softly, unable to help myself. ‘God yes, Sir’ I whisper, my eyes slowly closing.
I can feel the cushions shift as he draws closer, his hand cupping the side of my head and encouraging me to tip it into his palm, exposing more of my pale throat. His lips are cool as he kisses the skin over my jugular vein, and I know he can feel my pulse as it flutters harder and harder with anticipation. Soon the kiss turns wet, his tongue sliding over that sweet spot just beneath my jaw. His fingers grip at my head more firmly, and I can feel his other hand sliding along my arm before he grips me tightly at the bicep.
It hurts when his fangs pierce my skin and vein, and I tense and cry out like a struck dog, shaking. It makes him hold me tighter, his arms wrapping around me like a vice. Those teeth are pulled out and his lips seal around the wound, his tongue guiding the suction of my blood outward and down his throat. I only realize now that I’m clinging to his suit and holding my breath. Once I realize this I breathe out and relax my grip, letting the sharp claws recede back and change into my painted nails again.
He’s been done feeding for a while before I realize it, something about the whole thing making me a bit less than lucid. It’s like being high, but not dizzy. I’m vaguely aware of him guiding me to sit back against the couch and removing my shirt and skirt and panties, and suddenly I’m feeling a lot more leather against my heated skin.
My vision is a little hazy as I look up at him, watching him enrapt as he shrugs out of his coat. Somehow his pale skin seems to flush with health without really changing color. He’s still fair, but no longer snowy white, the difference between a living man and a corpse. As he nears the couch, my legs part for him, though he remains standing. His hand cups the back of my head, urging me to sit up and lean forward while his other hand guides his cock to my lips.
My tongue slides over the dull points of my own fangs. I’m not like him. Our crowds almost never run together, except for this. Except for right now. My lips tingle and I kiss his head, feeling his cap fill and emerge from his thinning foreskin. As it reveals itself I take it into mouth, my tongue sliding around the boundary of its retreating covering. I’m slowly starting to rise up out of this fog, and my hands slide up his legs, feeling the fine quality fabric there, until my fingers cup at his ass greedily and I press my mouth forward, sheathing him with the slow, hot, wet tightness of my tongue and throat.
I admit that I growl in pleasure, the rumbling, deep noise buzzing into his flesh. It makes his fingers tense on the back of my skull, and I can feel his ass and thighs tense. I’m dreamily prepared to swallow his load, but he doesn’t come. Not yet. Both his hands take hold of my head and move it, and all I do is leave my mouth open as he fucks me, moving me slowly and making me swallow at his crown. My fingers knead at his ass, tensing if he ever pushes too far, and thankfully he heeds those silent warnings.
And oh, I can tell he’s getting off on this. Orally fucking someone like me is a high risk sort of thing — if I panic and shift, his privates are in the single worst place imaginable. The man’s brave, I’ll give him that.
The wet, sucking, clicking sounds of a cock slowly thrusting into a tight, nervous throat are like a strange music to my ears. When he withdraws I feel empty, thick, viscous strings of heavy spit connecting my slightly numbed lips to his rock-hard shaft. I want to lick them up but he won’t let me, chuckling at my frustration and making me watch as he, himself, uses his fingers to gather up all of my saliva. And with those glistening, slippery fingertips, he bends down, sliding them in between my thighs to my slit.
His touch is unbelievable, and my sharp gasp is swallowed by a heated kiss. I shiver, tense, and twitch, still on the couch but only just. I feel like I’m going to melt and slide down to the floor any second. My breath catches as he slips a finger inside me, feeling how tight I am, and before proceeding much further he pulls away from the kiss to whisper against my cheek ‘Have you ever been with a man, Emelia?’
My voice is barely there as I breathily murmur ‘Yes, Sir.’ When he looks at me suspiciously, I admit ‘But not for a long time.’ Which is true — I’m woefully under-romanced.
He seems to think about something for a moment, and then his lips pull into a smirk, his blue eyes simmering as his hands move to grip at both my hips. I’m tugged down to the floor and turned around, then pushed forward until my chest and arms are resting on the seat cushion of the couch I was just sitting on.
My breath comes faster now, my eyes widening a little with excitement, and when he takes a fistful of hair at the back of my head I grit my teeth and grin with delight, my head angling back until I’m nearly looking up at the ceiling. My fingernails turn to claws again and grip at the cushion, my back dipping, hips offering themselves at just the right angle. With a swipe of my tongue I can feel that my fangs are sharper and longer now, and a yellow glowing from my now amber eyes bathes the couch in a low light.
A strip of silky, blond fur grows in along my spine, and at the point where my torso begins to just imperceptibly grow a little and thin, he slaps my hip sharply. ‘Go no further, Emelia. Control yourself.’
I clench my teeth, frowning, having given in to the desire to shift for a little bit. It’s frustrating to halt the process, like trying to stop pissing once you start, but it can be done and I manage it, returning to my normal size even if the furry strip along the back is still there for him to pet. My efforts aren’t unappreciated, and he caresses along the ridge of fur. ‘Good girl, Emelia.’
My reward is the feel of his cock rubbing at my needy pussy, rubbing my arousal around every corner of it and teasing my clit. I shiver and whimper, my fingers gripping at the cushion in anticipation. Yet he doesn’t push in, and I’m panting softly with nerves, rolling my eyes to try and look at him. ‘Sir…’ I begin, unsure of how pathetic I’m about to sound.
‘Da?’ he purrs, easing his grip on my hair a little before tightening it again. There’s amusement in his tone, as if he could do this all night, and that only makes my blush deepen hotly.
‘Please, Sir.’
His lips purse, and he shakes his head. ‘Nyet. Say it properly, Emelia. You will recall how.’
I wrinkle my nose and close my glowing eyes, trying to remember, and after a moment I clumsily say ‘P…Pezhalsta?’
‘Good girl’ he rumbles, and the fat length of his cock starts to push slowly into my tight body. His hand grips harder at my hair, and my fingers grip harder at the cushion as the fit becomes almost painfully snug. I can’t even imagine what anal would be like. Probably amazing. I’m panting with pain and excitement, and I can feel his free hand smooth down the ruffled, honeyed fur strip along my spine to calm me so I can r
elax my muscles.
Finally, finally he pushes in that last inch, and our hips press up against one another. I can take all of him, but only just, and I can feel his cock twitch inside my grip. ‘It must have been a very long time’ he grumbles, working hard to stave off his climax. I try not to move or breathe, wanting us both to calm down. I don’t want this to end. Ever.
To my surprise, however, he pulls out, wiping my nectar off on my thigh before he tucks himself back into his pants, the fly just barely containing him. Once he lets go of me I turn and sit, my heart pounding, afraid I’d done something wrong. ‘Sir, what’s wrong?!’ I wheedle, biting my lip with embarrassment at how whiny that sounded.
‘Nothing, Emelia. This is our game. You will have your reward tonight, and I will have mine. But we have only just started, hmm?’ There’s a bit of strain in his voice, of leashed frustration as he lets himself go soft again. But there’s also a dark playfulness there too, and his hands are gentle and affectionate as he helps me to get dressed again. ‘Go now, go out and attend to your work. Pleasure others with your mouth, if you like. But leave this…’ his hand slips under my skirt, caressing at the sodden crotch of my reapplied panties ‘…for me. Pezhalsta.’
I shiver and nod, my eyes large and girlish. I’m so completely out of my depth, and I can feel it curling up in my guts as I watch him walk calmly out of the room, once again dressed immaculately. In the privacy of this space I could easily get myself off and find some relief, but… I don’t want to. I want to be on edge. I want to be a wreck. Even if he never comes to find me again, I want to suffer and wait for him and want him until the end of my shift.
How pathetic — a werewolf who gets off on being hunted.
So I tidy up in the bathroom and make my way out into the club, keeping to the darker, large room with the main stage to hide my deep blush. Of course, I turn heads everywhere I go because even though I’ve calmed, and the furry strip on my back and the claws on my fingers are gone, my eyes are still furiously glowing. I can’t get them to stop. Neither can I get my fangs to shrink. And given that I’m in a nervous, good mood, I’m smiling a lot, flashing them everywhere.
The sight puts off quite a few people, but it attracts many more, and I’m invited to talk, to drink, to mingle. Some of them even want to kiss me, but there’s very little beyond that. When I ask one of them why, he points to the puncture marks on my neck. Someone has already claimed me for the night, and it would be wrong to use someone else’s toy more than casually.
At first I’m kind of insulted. I’m not a toy. But… God, why does the thought turn me on so much? He apologizes for making me uncomfortable but I smile and say it’s nothing, pulling him in to kiss for a little while longer. And yet as beautiful as these creatures are, I just… none of them are good enough. I’ve been spoiled. I’m not intimidated by them anymore.
I part ways with that particular patron, leaving on good terms with a tired jaw and a reason to go touch up my makeup and brush my teeth. A few minutes later I’ve just dropped off my backpack in the employee locker room again when I see him waiting, leaning against one of the walls further down the shadowy hallway. The glint of his cane with its silver head makes my heart skip a beat, though I try to play it cool as I walk up to him.
‘How is the evening treating you, Emelia?’ he asks with a smile, his Russian accent still beautiful to my ears.
‘Fine, I guess’ I manage, suddenly finding it hard to stay calm around him. Hell, all I want to do is sink to my knees and fish his cock out of his pants.
Either he can read minds, or he’s wanting the same thing, because he leads me to a more secluded part of the club and leans his back against the wall of an alcove. ‘You may begin.’
Cathalina
- 25.09.2021
- 15
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