Heyo folks,
You may have read some of my [Flash Erotica](https://www.reddit.com/user/clairecupperotica/comments/fnmhlo/flash_erotica_the_entire_collection/). Well, my brain can’t seem to stay focused on one project, so I have something new for you! A novel! Maybe. We’ll see. I’ve never written one before, so I’m going to post the chapters for free and see if anyone likes them, heh.
I will post here on Reddit and on [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/clairecupperotica). I have a full-time job, so new chapters may come slowly, but feel free to follow along if you’re interested. You can follow me on Reddit or Wattpad for easy updates. Please note, I will still write flash erotica when I can!
Alrighty. The story blurb and Chapter 1 are below. I hope you enjoy it!
***xo, Claire***
—
# Blurb
*For the uninitiated, 420 High Street (aka “420”) is exactly what you would expect: a marijuana dispensary. But an exclusive group of clients knows its secret: it’s also 420 Dark, New York City’s premier bordello.*
*As the sole proprietor of 420, Molly Dodd is technically responsible for both businesses. However, the bordello is her passion. While she plays madame in the basement, sweetheart Ryan manages the shop. He doesn’t know about 420 Dark, and she intends to keep it that way.*
*Until one night when she’s approached by a dangerous ex-lover. He threatens to ruin her businesses if she doesn’t give him what he wants. While she tries to save her livelihood, Molly’s secrets seep upstairs and change her relationship with Ryan forever.*
—
# Chapter 1 – Him.
“I’ve never seen a girl with so many tattoos,” his sultry voice hums in shadow.
Standing in front of him in a soft spotlight, naked and bare of body hair, I coyly smile. I’m technically 31, so I’m far from being a “girl,” but I don’t scold him. He’s a new client, and he didn’t request to be scolded. He requested to sit on an armless red leather throne in a dark room, and he requested to enjoy my personal services. He could have chosen from a dozen other attendants at 420 Dark, but considering he’s wearing a fifty thousand dollar watch, I’m not surprised he spent the extra money for my undivided attention. I am the Madame, after all.
I tease, “You haven’t even seen half of—”
“Turn around.” His command rumbles in my chest. It looks like I’m playing the submissive tonight. Wearing my same coy smile, I slowly turn. My four-inch heels click on the floor while the light spills over my curves—my suckable breasts, my kissable belly, my grabbable ass, and my strokable thighs. Tattoos adorn my supple skin.
“Stop.”
I still with my back squarely facing him. I proudly smile and bite my lip. Imagining the light draping down my spine puckers my nipples. I don’t need a man; I turn on myself.
“Bend over.”
I obey. Slowly. Silently. While maintaining perfect posture, I dip forward until I can. Once I’m fully bent over, I wrap my fingers around my ankles. Then I wait in the dark room, warm from the spotlight and my arousal, with my ass perched high and my beautiful cunt peaking between my legs.
He deeply inhales, and my pussy pulses. It throbs as his long, heavy breaths fill the room. My anticipation heavies my own breathing. He could do so many things while I’m in this position. He could slide his finger between my labia and stroke the soft skin beneath it. Or he could nuzzle his face between my legs and tease me with his tongue. He could glide his cock between my buttocks. He could even slip it inside me. I’m already delightfully wet. He might want to go fast. I’d teach him how to go slow.
“Come here.” His voice is all-encompassing. It invades my senses. It floods me with his desire, and it swirls around my mind like a hypnotic elixir. The sensation feels almost natural.
I straddle his lap not really knowing how I got there, but my confusion washes away when he slides his hands up my thighs. He grabs my hips and pulls me closer, dragging my wet sex along his suit trousers. The soft fabric tickles my clit and makes it tense with urgency. I press my sensitive breasts against his crisp jacket. I undo the top button of his shirt and indulgently glide my fingers up his firm neck.
I still can’t see him. I can only feel him, and the more I feel him, the hotter I become. His thick hair. His clean-cut strong jaw. His soft lips that hover inches from mine. His skin feels weathered, just enough to say he knows how the world works. I sharply inhale and tilt my throbbing sex against his crotch.
He slides his hands up my waist and presses hard against my skin, so hard that his fingers hurt my ribs. A drop of anxiety ripples across my chest.
I smile and create some distance between us. “Someone’s excite—” He grabs the back of my head and slams his mouth onto mine.
He bombards me with a passionate kiss. It’s savagely hungry, like he’s been craving to touch me, and taste me, and devour me with unhinged lust. I can barely escape for breath. He keeps me tangled in his arms and vulnerable to his violent affection. The way he nips my neck, and sucks my ear, and forces me to accept his wide-mouth kisses is frightening and invigorating. My strong body goes limp. He feels every curve of me like he wants to memorize my shape. His fingers press hard against my muscles. They squeeze my fat and search for my bones. They feel me so intensely that I can’t focus on anything else. My mind fogs. The spotlight dims.
He growls, “Touch my dick.”
Like an addict, I desperately paw at his trousers to find his hardness. When I feel his wet tip through the fabric, electric heat strikes my entire body. My fever rises as I slide my hand up his thigh. He’s long. And thick. And mouth-wateringly hard. Maybe there’s too much of him, but I still want him. Oh *god,* I want him, even if he rips me in two.
I frantically unbuckle and unbutton the man in shadow. I’ve just undone his zipper when he grabs my wrists. I gasp and jump in his lap; his touch shocks all of my senses. But then the fog slowly fades.
He sits quietly. My breath steadies and my heartbeat calms. I can hear the light buzz of the spotlight. I remember the size of the room and its attributes. It has a door for clients and a door for staff. And a one-way mirror to keep me safe. I’m safe.
The man in shadow loosens his grip on my wrists. I twitch when he strokes my cheek. Goosebumps follow his fingers as he caresses the rest of me, and soon, the muscles he made wince with pain hesitantly accept his care.
He whispers, “Let me see you again.”
Even though he still sits in darkness, I lean back so that the spotlight cascades down my body.
He brushes his thumb against a tattoo on my arm. “I never thought I’d like a girl with tattoos.”
I flash a smile to diffuse my annoyance. I’m not a girl.
While he feels the rest of my body art, he casually explains, “I typically think girls with tattoos are vulgar. They’re imprudent and emotionally unstable. They’re idiotic for choosing to stain their beautiful skin with meaningless words and symbols. But you’re not one of those girls, are you?”
I honestly don’t know how to respond. Well, I do know how to respond. I just don’t how to respond without offending him. Or hurting him.
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond anyway. “I know you’ve built this brothel from nothing.”
My jaw tenses. 420 Dark is a bordello. Brothel is too loaded as a term. Every 420 Dark patron knows that.
He strokes my face. “You’ve actually built two businesses, haven’t you? Your illicit cathouse and your cannabis dispensary.” He softly chuckles. “It’s quite clever. Medical marijuana is legal in the state of New York, but the federal government still considers it a Schedule I drug—as dangerous as heroin. Banks won’t let you open a checking account; there are too many regulatory restrictions. You have no choice but to be a cash-only business, which means you have ample opportunity to launder money.”
I’m half-tempted to signal for Charlie to escort this asshole off the premises.
He glides his hand up my thigh. He’s gentle, but I’m still on edge. “And you don’t just own these businesses, you *actively* participate in them.” When he slips his fingers between my wet folds, my clit reflexively tenses with pleasure. I swallow my hitching breath.
He sighs. “I admit, I’m impressed, and I’m never impressed. You’ve done me proud, Muffin.”
I paralyze with shock. No. It can’t be him.
The throne creeks and a face emerges from the shadow. It is undeniably him. Cole Downing. He looks a little older than I remember—he’s obviously vacationed in the sun—but he’s still strikingly handsome. Photoshopped-model handsome.
I met him at his father’s Fortune 500 petrochemical company. I was a shy intern and he was the youngest executive in the company’s history. When he fingered me in the 51st-floor stairwell, I didn’t know that he would almost ruin my life.
I lift my arm and signal for Charlie, but Cole grabs it and clamps his hands around my elbows. I try to wriggle out of his grasp. “Let go of me.”
He just smirks and effortlessly imprisons me. With haunting silver-gray eyes, he taunts, “There’s my girl. You’ve always been feisty.”
I feel disgusted. Heartbroken. Furious. A little afraid. But I keep my voice steady. “How did you get in here?” I strictly forbade all of my staff from letting Cole into my bordello. He was supposed to never touch me again. He was supposed to never find me again.
He huffs like it’s obvious. “Money eventually opens every door, sweetheart.”
My breath catches in my throat. Where is Charlie?
Cole violates me with his predatory gaze, assessing my body in the spotlight. “I hardly recognized you. You covered your fair skin with ink, and of course, you’re fuller.” I wince when he squeezes my thigh. “But you kept your long blond hair, and it’s impossible to forget those baby blue eyes.”
The way he softly looks into my eyes terrifies me. I want to look away, but that would mean he won.
He admires my swollen lips. “You used to be my Muffin, my all-American princess. But now you’re my *Madame,* my hipster whore.”
I jerk to loosen his grip. “I’m not your anything.” He easily pulls me against him instead. I twist away my head to avoid his kiss, but he does something worse than kiss me.
He rests his cheek on mine and murmurs, “You were so young, Muffin. Barely twenty-one, and in bed with a guy ten years older than you.” He leans so close to me that his lips brush against my ear. “But you loved it.”
My clit throbs from the memory of his cock deep inside me, late at night in our secret penthouse. He would growl filthy things to me—tell me what he wanted to do to me. Then he did them. Over and over again.
“Did you know it’s been exactly ten years since you left me?” He squeezes me tighter while he explains, “I was livid when I read your email. No one leaves me, especially not some spoiled, delusional slut.” Tears well in my eyes. He pulls my hair so that I’m forced to look at him. “I’ve been with *a lot* of women, Muffin. Many of them were better educated than you. Even more were more attractive than you. But they were dull. I got bored. I’ve forgotten most of their names. But even after all this time, I still remember you.” He brushes his lips against my cheek and murmurs, “You’re special.”
My scalp is in so much pain that I can barely think. But I manage to snarl, “I bet you said the same thing to your wife.”
He yanks my hair so hard that I nearly bend in half. I grit my teeth to keep me from bursting into tears. Where the fuck is Charlie?
Cole gently kisses my neck. “You know that Bridget and I only married to consolidate our family’s wealth. We’ve never loved each other.”
That’s a lie. Or it’s not. Or it’s a half-truth. He’s always played mind games so he can do what he wants. I escaped him. I won’t let him trap me again.
I delicately sigh, “You’re right, you never loved her.” I relax in his stiff grip, pretending to accept his patronizing compliments. When he smiles against my neck, I know he thinks he’s won.
He retreats his fingers from my hair and then cups my cheeks. Even though my body quivers with fear, he gazes at me peacefully. His molten eyes almost look shimmery. I glare at him as fiercely as I can, but my eyelashes are heavy with tears. My mascara may have already smudged. Everything throbs with pain.
I can’t stop it. A tear spills down my cheek. He gently wipes it away with his thumb. When he leans in for a kiss, two more tears fall down my face.
His kiss is tender, but I know it’s conditional. Tenderness from Cole always has a cost: stop resisting. If you let him take what he wants, then he’ll be kind.
I meekly whimper like I did a decade ago, and like a decade ago, he lets me scooch forward. He lets me wrap my arms around his neck and sigh against his chest. He lets me accept his merciful tongue in my ungrateful mouth, and he lets me rub my shameful sex along his bulging manhood.
I whine in his ear, “*Daddy*.”
He deeply inhales, fully convinced of my submission. Now’s my time.
I cutely tug his tie. “Daddy, take it off.”
When both of his hands touch the knot under his neck, I spring off his lap and bolt for the staff door.
But four-inch heels aren’t made for running.
**! – – – – – TRIGGER WARNING – – – – – !**
I’m slammed face-first against the one-way mirror, feet away from the staff door. Glass cracks and my head pounds. Cole pins me to the wall with all of his weight. Even though I’m in my heels, he’s still at least a head taller than me. His undone belt buckle presses hard against my ass.
I want to fight. I want to kick, and scream, and do everything else to get him off of me. But I freeze. I know he’s stronger than me, I have a feeling he paid off Charlie, and calling for help feels humiliating. I can only pray for a miracle.
He molests my trembling body. While he fondles my breasts, he murmurs, “Don’t run away again, Muffin.”
I stammer, “M-My name is M-Molly.”
He slips his long fingers between my legs and strokes my swollen folds. They’re wet. They want him, but I don’t.
His smile scrapes against my cheek. “Stop denying what you want, *Molly*.”
I want to push myself away from the wall, but my arms won’t move. I manage to whisper, “I don’t want you.”
He growls, “You do.”
My tears mix with the blood streaming down the glass. “No.”
His cold belt buckle presses harder against me. “You love when I fuck you against the wall.”
“No.” I whimper with fear. “Not anymore.”
“Goddammit!” I yip when he slaps his hand against the glass. “Enough of this, Molly. You want me because you *are* me.” Every muscle in my body tenses when he puts his hand around my throat. He taunts me by slowly squeezing. “We are exactly alike. We’re business people, we’re criminals, and we’re”—he presses his mouth against my ear—”*insatiable*.”
Raging adrenaline electrifies me. “I am *nothing* like you!”
He laughs from his empty pit of a soul. “Oh, you fucking are. And I’m going to make you remember it.”
While he tries to kick open my legs, he does make me remember. When all of the safeguards fail—the client won’t stop, security is MIA, and the attendant can’t escape—there are emergency sensors. They’re on furniture, restraints, machines…Hit one three times, and then the alarm goes off. Bad men tend to like pinning women against walls. We’re prepared for that.
He manages to shove open my legs with his knee. He pins my face to the mirror with one hand and fumbles with his dick with the other, and I throw back my heavy heel. I smack it once against the baseboard, twice, then I fucking roar as I crash it one last time.
The alarm goes off.
***To be continued…***
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/fpz8su/420_high_street_he_found_my_secret_sex_club