The rooftop bar glowed like a secret.
Glass railings wrapped the terrace, framing a skyline just starting to shimmer with lights. The air was thick with music — low, sensual, jazz-inflected — and the clink of glasses. People lounged on velvet couches under golden heat lamps. Everything was soft, expensive, curated for desire.
Mika stepped onto the rooftop wearing a deep red slip dress. Thin straps. No bra. Her skin gleamed in the warm city light. Hair loosely pinned. Lips wine-dark.
She was here for a client.
But she didn't know her name.
Just a description:
"She'll be the one in the tailored white suit. You'll know her when you see her."
And Mika did.
The woman stood at the edge of the terrace, alone, drink in hand. Tall. Elegant. Her skin a smooth, rich brown that caught the amber light. Her white suit was razor-sharp — wide-legged trousers, a low-cut vest with no shirt beneath, showing a line of toned chest and the suggestion of breasts beneath silk.
She turned slightly.
Mika caught a glimpse of her eyes: warm gold under thick lashes, dangerous and amused.
Their gazes locked.
The woman smiled — not wide, just a curl of knowing lips.
She knew Mika had arrived.
Mika approached slowly, hips swaying with each step. She felt watched — not just by the woman, but by the room. Like something was about to happen. Like she was about to become someone else again.
"Miss Mika?" the woman asked, voice velvet over ice.
"Depends who's asking."
The woman laughed, low and sultry. "I'm the one paying."
"Well then," Mika said, stepping closer, "I'm definitely her."
They stood close now — close enough to feel breath, to smell perfume: jasmine and warm spice. Mika tilted her head, playful.
"And you?"
"You can call me Sloane."
Mika smiled. "Of course I can."
Sloane offered a drink — some smooth, expensive champagne. Mika took it. Their fingers touched.
Electric.
"You're gorgeous," Sloane said.
"I know," Mika replied. Then, more softly: "So are you."
Sloane's smile deepened. "Come sit with me."
They moved to a secluded corner — half-shielded by plants, shadows, and the curve of the terrace. The couch was velvet, deep green. The city shimmered behind them.
Mika crossed her legs slowly, intentionally. Sloane watched her every movement. Not like a man might — not with hunger first — but with appreciation. Calculation. Curiosity. As if Mika was both art and puzzle.
Their knees brushed.
Mika leaned in. "So… what do you want from me tonight?"
Sloane looked her straight in the eye.
"I want to make you come," she said. "In public. Quietly. While you try to keep your composure. And then I want to take you home and undo you slowly. Again. And again."
Mika swallowed.
Hard.
A throb pulsed between her thighs.
"…You don't waste time."
"Do you want me to?"
"No," Mika whispered.
Then Sloane's hand slid up her thigh.
Sloane's fingers trailed up Mika's thigh — slow, deliberate. Her hand warm against the cool satin of Mika's dress.
Mika's breath caught.
They were still sitting in the corner of the rooftop bar. Music played. People talked and laughed around them. No one was watching — and yet, it felt like everyone could see.
Sloane leaned in.
"Don't move," she murmured, her voice like heat in Mika's ear.
Mika obeyed.
Sloane's hand slid higher, under the hem of the dress now — brushing the bare skin above Mika's knee, gliding upward.
No panties.
Sloane froze, then pulled back slightly to meet Mika's gaze. There was a flicker of surprise… and then a dark smile.
"You knew what you were doing," she whispered.
Mika gave the smallest nod.
Then Sloane's fingers reached her inner thigh.
She didn't go straight for it. No — she circled. Teased. Let her nails graze lightly, just enough to make Mika's legs tense.
Mika sipped her champagne with trembling fingers. Her other hand gripped the couch cushion tightly.
Sloane's hand slipped between her thighs.
And found her wet.
Soaked.
"Already?" Sloane teased, pressing the pad of her middle finger gently to the slick lips of Mika's pussy. "You're filthy."
Mika gasped — but she kept her voice low. She had to. There were people everywhere.
"You started it," she whispered.
Sloane slid one finger through the wetness. Then two. Not inside — not yet — just gliding between the lips, stroking Mika's clit in slow, torturous circles.
Mika's thighs trembled.
"Good girl," Sloane murmured.
Mika bit her lip, back arching just slightly.
Sloane leaned in again, lips brushing her ear. "Don't come yet."
The pressure increased. The strokes deepened.
Mika's thighs parted further without her meaning to. Her dress rose higher, riding up to her hips under the table. If anyone walked by…
She didn't care.
Not anymore.
She needed this.
Sloane's fingers were expert — light at first, then more firm, then back to light. Keeping Mika off balance. Building her up and pulling her back down again. Not letting her fall over the edge.
"You taste like sin," Sloane whispered.
Mika whimpered.
She could feel her orgasm building — threatening. But Sloane stopped just short each time, her smirk growing wider with every twitch of Mika's hips.
"You'll wait until I say," she said. "Or I'll stop."
Mika nodded, desperate, breathless.
Sloane leaned in again and kissed her.
Soft at first.
Then deeper.
Tongue brushing hers.
And all the while, her fingers didn't stop — sliding down, pressing in, stroking upward again, rubbing Mika's clit in just the way she knew would drive her wild.
Mika moaned into the kiss — a soft, aching sound that she tried to swallow.
But it escaped.
Just loud enough for someone nearby to glance their way.
Mika's eyes snapped open.
Sloane didn't flinch.
She whispered, "Stay still."
And slid one finger inside.
Sloane's finger slid deep into Mika with a slow, deliberate thrust — and Mika's breath hitched so hard she nearly dropped her glass.
She grabbed the stem tighter, knuckles white.
"Sshhh," Sloane whispered, lips close to her ear, her voice a calm threat wrapped in silk. "You'll come when I tell you."
Mika nodded, but she was already falling apart.
Sloane's finger curled inside her. A second finger joined, stretching her just enough to make Mika gasp, then whimper — a soft, barely-contained sound that spilled out before she could catch it.
Her pussy clenched around the intrusion, hot and slick. Her thighs trembled. Her heels dug into the floor.
Sloane didn't move fast.
She moved deep — each thrust precise, angled, a slow push in and drag out that made Mika's whole body arch in place.
"God," Mika whispered, "fuck…"
A couple passed their table, chatting about something meaningless. Mika smiled weakly at them — her face flushed, her back rigid, trying to look composed even as Sloane's fingers worked inside her.
She was shaking.
She was soaked.
Sloane curled her fingers again, then angled them — and brushed Mika's G-spot with calculated pressure.
Mika nearly cried out.
But Sloane's other hand was ready — covering Mika's mouth suddenly, gently, as if she'd anticipated everything.
"You don't want them to hear, do you?" she whispered.
Mika whimpered into her palm, hips rocking helplessly as Sloane finger-fucked her right there in the open.
"You're so wet," Sloane murmured. "So hungry. Is this what you needed tonight? Someone who knows how to handle you?"
Mika nodded frantically, still muffled, eyes glassy.
And Sloane… smiled.
Then she pressed her thumb to Mika's clit and started circling.
Mika's whole body bucked.
She came fast — harder than she expected. Her orgasm ripped through her like lightning. Her thighs clenched around Sloane's hand. Her eyes fluttered shut, lips parted in a silent moan as her muscles seized and fluttered.
The bar around them didn't notice.
Or pretended not to.
The jazz kept playing. The laughter carried on.
But inside Mika's body, everything exploded.
Everything changed.
Sloane didn't stop. Not right away. She drew out the climax — fingers still moving, slower now, coaxing every last tremor until Mika was left breathless and limp on the velvet seat.
Then Sloane slipped her fingers out.
She lifted them to her lips.
And sucked them slowly, eyes locked on Mika's.
"Taste that?" she said softly. "That's what surrender tastes like."
Mika could barely speak.
She just stared — ruined and alive, heart racing, wet between her thighs.
And wanting more.
The elevator down was unbearable.
Mika stood beside Sloane in a mirrored box filled with silence, the faint hum of the building's jazz spilling in through the walls. They were alone.
But Mika's legs still trembled.
Her pussy was still soaked, bare beneath her dress.
And Sloane…
Sloane stood with her hands calmly in her pockets, her expression serene, her scent still tinged with jasmine and something darker — want.
When they reached the car — a sleek black coupe with tinted windows — Sloane opened the door for her. Mika slid in, thighs still slick, heart thudding.
The doors shut.
The driver didn't speak. Just tapped the partition button. The glass slid up with a soft whir.
And they were alone.
Mika turned toward her, breathless. "That was—"
Sloane kissed her.
No warning.
Just lips — warm, hungry — crashing into hers, tongue sliding into her mouth. The kiss was messy this time, not soft like before. Wet. Deep. Claiming.
Mika melted into it.
Her hands tangled in Sloane's lapels. Her body shifted toward her. And then—
Sloane's hand was under her dress again, between her thighs.
"Still wet," she murmured, pulling back slightly.
"Of course I am," Mika whispered.
Sloane smirked — then climbed over the center console and pushed Mika flat against the leather seat.
The car moved.
But Mika barely noticed.
All she could feel were Sloane's fingers tugging her dress up to her waist… and then that warm mouth trailing down her body.
Down her neck.
Her collarbone.
Between her breasts.
Mika gasped as Sloane slid the thin straps from her shoulders, baring her chest completely.
Her nipples were already hard.
Sloane sucked one into her mouth — hot and firm — while her fingers spread Mika's thighs wider.
"Keep your legs open for me," she whispered against her skin.
Mika obeyed.
And then… Sloane's mouth moved lower.
She kissed down Mika's stomach, slow and deliberate.
Mika's breath caught.
Then she felt it — warm breath against her inner thigh. The slick brush of Sloane's lips. The teasing press of her tongue so close to where she needed it.
"Oh my god…"
Sloane licked her once — a long, slow stroke from her entrance up to her clit — and Mika arched.
Then she moaned — loud, shameless — as Sloane buried her face between her thighs.
Her tongue moved in slow, deep strokes. Not frantic. Controlled. Every flick of her tongue was placed with intent — like she was tasting Mika, learning her, breaking her down one slow motion at a time.
Mika couldn't stop moaning.
She was on her back, legs wide, body arched — helpless in the backseat of a moving car with a woman between her legs, eating her out like a feast.
Sloane's tongue circled her clit now — soft, then harder, then flicking side to side. One hand pinned Mika's hip. The other slipped up to cup her breast, to pinch her nipple.
"F—fuck—" Mika gasped, her hips grinding up to meet that mouth.
Sloane groaned into her — and the vibration made Mika jerk, her second orgasm rising fast, wild and uncontrollable.
Her body tensed.
She grabbed Sloane's head, fingers twisting in her short curls.
"I—I'm gonna—"
Sloane didn't stop.
She devoured her.
And Mika came — thighs shaking, hips rolling, a long, helpless cry spilling from her lips as she came all over Sloane's tongue.
Her vision went white.
Her body shuddered.
And still, Sloane licked her through it — soft now, coaxing the last trembles until Mika collapsed in a sweaty, moaning mess on the seat.
When Sloane finally lifted her head, her mouth and chin glistened with Mika's arousal.
She smiled.
"Round two down."
Sloane's apartment was high above the city — all glass and shadows, minimalist luxury and cool air-conditioning. The only warmth came from the golden glow of a backlit bar, and from the woman whose hand gripped Mika's wrist like a promise.
Mika was still trembling when the door clicked shut behind them.
Sloane didn't give her time to adjust. She backed Mika up against the front door and kissed her — hard. Her tongue pushed deep, claiming Mika's mouth again like it was hers. Possessive. Confident.
Mika moaned into her, heat flooding between her legs again.
"You're going to do exactly what I say tonight," Sloane said against her lips. "No questions. No hesitation."
Mika nodded, dazed, breathless. "Yes."
"Strip."
Mika blinked.
Sloane stepped back, folding her arms. Watching.
Mika's fingers trembled as she reached for the straps of her dress, pushing them from her shoulders. The fabric slid down slowly, pooling at her feet in a whisper. She stepped out of it, leaving herself bare — no bra, no panties, no heels. Just skin, flushed and needy.
Sloane stepped forward and circled her, once.
Then she leaned in, lips brushing Mika's ear.
"Beautiful," she murmured.
Her hand moved to Mika's hip — then slid between her legs from behind. Mika gasped as fingers parted her folds once more, stroking her slowly from behind.
"Still dripping."
Sloane's other hand moved up to cup Mika's breast. She pinched her nipple, then whispered, "Go to the couch. On all fours."
Mika obeyed.
The couch was deep and soft, her knees sinking into the velvet as she positioned herself as instructed. Her ass high. Her back arched.
She felt exposed.
Vulnerable.
And wildly aroused.
Behind her, Sloane knelt.
And then—her tongue.
Hot.
Wet.
Hungry.
She spread Mika's ass and ate her out from behind, tongue sliding over her soaked pussy in long, sinful strokes, then circling her clit until Mika moaned helplessly into the cushions.
"God—Sloane—please—"
"Be quiet."
A sharp smack landed on her ass — just enough to make her jolt and clench.
Then another lick — harder this time, focused. Sloane's mouth worked her with obscene skill, tongue flicking over her clit as two fingers pushed inside her again from below.
Mika screamed into the couch cushions — not from pain, but from too much pleasure.
It was too much.
Too deep.
Too right.
Sloane's hand gripped her hip. Her fingers thrust harder, faster. Her tongue never left Mika's clit. It was merciless — overwhelming. The sounds between Mika's legs were filthy — slick, wet, constant.
Mika's whole body quaked.
She could feel another orgasm building — already. It was coming fast. Too fast.
"I—I can't—"
"You can."
Sloane reached up, twisted her nipple, bit the inside of her thigh—and Mika came again.
Explosively.
Violently.
Her body went taut, legs shaking. Her cry was strangled and sharp, her hips twitching wildly as her orgasm tore through her.
Sloane held her still, fingers still deep inside, licking her slowly now, gently — coaxing the last waves until Mika collapsed.
Face down. Sprawled. Ruined.
She barely noticed when Sloane lifted her, carried her to the bedroom.
But she felt the sheets.
The cool silk against her back.
Sloane climbed on top of her.
"This," she said, "is where I really start to play."
The bedroom was dim and quiet, save for the soft whisper of city lights glowing through the tall glass windows.
Mika lay on the bed, her body still flushed and trembling. Her skin glistened faintly, a sheen of sweat painting her thighs and chest. She was sprawled across silk sheets, her breath slowing but never steady — not with Sloane hovering above her.
Sloane's eyes devoured her.
She was still fully dressed — jacket off, sleeves rolled, collar open — a composed silhouette against the bedroom light. The contrast made Mika feel even more naked, even more exposed. Her heart thudded from the weight of being seen like this — not just physically, but emotionally. There was no hiding under Sloane's gaze.
"I want you to stay still," Sloane murmured, brushing Mika's cheek with her knuckles. "Let me have you. All of you."
Mika nodded. "I'm yours."
That answer made something flicker in Sloane's eyes. Approval. Hunger. Maybe something softer beneath the surface — something Mika couldn't name yet.
Sloane began undressing slowly. Purposefully. Button by button. Every motion was quiet power — nothing rushed, nothing careless. When she finally slid onto the bed, she kissed Mika deeply — slower than before, with more weight behind it.
The kiss spoke of possession. Of patience. Of care.
Then Sloane reached toward the bedside drawer.
Mika's pulse jumped.
Sloane revealed a length of dark silk — a simple ribbon, cool and smooth. She raised it without a word, brushing it over Mika's collarbone, then her lips.
"Hands above your head."
Mika obeyed — slowly, breathing shallowly.
Sloane tied her wrists gently to the headboard. Not tight. But secure enough that Mika understood: she wouldn't be moving unless Sloane wanted her to.
Then came the blindfold — another silk strip, black and soft, slipping over Mika's eyes. The world vanished.
She gasped at the sudden darkness.
"Sloane…"
"Shhh."
A kiss landed on her jaw. Then another at her neck.
Then—nothing.
For a full minute, maybe more, Sloane touched nothing at all. The anticipation built like static on Mika's skin. She squirmed, already aching to be touched, to be filled, to be claimed again.
And then came heat.
Not a hand — a mouth.
Sloane's tongue traced a slow line from Mika's navel up to her chest. A long pause. A breath. Then the warmth again, this time across her breast. Soft lips closed around a nipple, suckling gently, then harder, pulling another breathless moan from Mika's throat.
She arched into it. Helpless. Sightless. Bound.
Sloane shifted lower.
And Mika whimpered.
She could feel Sloane's hair brushing her inner thigh, her breath fanning the slick heat between her legs — and she was already moaning before the first touch.
The pleasure wasn't violent now.
It was endless.
Drawn out. Methodical. Sloane moved like she had all night, like she knew Mika's body better than Mika did — alternating softness and pressure, giving just enough to make her cry out, then pulling away before she could fall.
"Please…" Mika gasped.
But Sloane ignored it.
The teasing was unbearable. Fingers ghosted over her hips, mouth hovering without landing, tongue flicking when Mika least expected it. Every second stretched out like silk unwinding — smooth, tight, inevitable.
By the time Sloane finally let her come again, Mika was near tears — undone, desperate, completely open. Her orgasm rolled over her slowly this time — not like lightning, but like warm waves crashing over her body, again and again.
She sobbed into the blindfold, body trembling against the restraints.
And Sloane held her through it, murmuring something she couldn't quite hear — something soft, something kind.
It wasn't just sex anymore.
It was surrender. It was trust.
And Mika had never needed anything more.
The silence after pleasure is a strange thing — not empty, but full. Full of breath. Of heartbeat. Of words unsaid.
Mika lay motionless, still blindfolded, her wrists soft in their bindings. Her body ached in the best way — stretched, satisfied, softened. She wasn't sure how long she'd been like that. Minutes? Hours?
Time didn't feel real in Sloane's world.
She felt the bed dip slightly. The faint rustle of sheets. Then a warm palm cupped her face, and the silk slipped from her eyes.
Light returned in a dim, golden haze.
Sloane hovered over her — not commanding now, but calm. Gentle. A softness had replaced the fire in her eyes.
"You did well," she murmured, fingers brushing a stray hair from Mika's cheek. "You didn't break. Even when I pushed you."
Mika exhaled, a shaky little sound. "I almost did."
"But you didn't."
There was pride in Sloane's voice, but also something else — something unspoken. A kind of care.
She untied Mika's wrists, rubbing slow circles into her skin where the silk had left faint impressions. No words passed between them in that moment — only the warmth of Sloane's touch, the quiet grounding of being held.
When Sloane finally pulled Mika into her arms, Mika sank against her without hesitation.
They lay that way for a long while.
Not lovers, not strangers — something else. Something unfolding.
"I wasn't expecting you," Sloane said, voice low in the dark. "You're different from the others."
Mika blinked against her shoulder. "Different how?"
Sloane didn't answer right away.
Then she said, "You feel everything. Even when you try not to. It's rare. And dangerous."
Mika didn't know how to respond to that. She just lay there, held in the arms of a woman who had taken her apart and put her back together all in the same night.
Eventually, sleep crept in.
But even as her eyes closed, her mind spun.
What happened tonight hadn't just been a session.
It had changed something.
In her body.
In her boundaries.
In the mirror she held up to herself.
She was falling deeper — into a world of blurred lines, exquisite power, and reckless need.
And she wasn't sure she wanted to stop.