Ivan Press

Ivan

It's Halloween, and the streets are full of little kids in spiderman costumes, but not in this part of town. Where Ivan lives, there's hardly anyone over the age of 50 or under the age of 20: a slice of affluent young professionals and overprivileged young adults living off their parents' wealth. Out here, Halloween is a different animal entirely, an excuse to party, an excuse for hedonism.

Over at 450 E Waterside, there's been a nonstop chain of luxury vehicles pulling up to the drive all night. A private elevator staffed by a large, tattooed man - he might as well be a bouncer - has lifted car after car of glitterati up to the penthouse. More go up than down. Sometimes there's even a goddamn line in the lobby, and everyone is in black or white, and everyone is dressed to kill.

A guest can hear the music riding up the elevator. Some obscene amount of wattage sucking up half the electricity in the building, pumping out bass and subbass. When the doors open a wall of music, noise and conversation rolls through. An icy blonde is checking IDs against a guest list in the gallery. One couple might be having sex against the wall, but it's hard to tell for all the people squeezing past them to get in.

The living room has turned into a cutting-edge club. There are goddamn lasers and neons, people passed out on the stairs. There are a group of increasingly inebriated guests playing some deviant little game over on the couches: something involving exchanged masks and guessing identities and kisses, and every time someone gets something wrong someone loses some article of clothing, someone gets kissed somewhere a little lower.

There's a professional bartender in the kitchen; gallons of booze. Scrumptious little fingerfoods that keep running empty and keep getting refilled. People are eating on the terrace, people are smoking on the terrace, someone's hopped up on something really good and he's trying to climb up on the terrace walls screaming he can fly, really, he can fly, and his friends are laughing and pulling him back and he just might end up a smear on the pavement but they don't really care. Friendships are so shallow in this echelon of society.

The library has turned into a lounge, and it's a little quieter there and sometimes guests drift over to get a little better acquainted. Up the stairs and the music recedes to a dull thump of bass in the guest rooms, and one of them is full of passed-out people and the other is closed and there might be a fucking orgy in there, who knows. There's a man out in the upstairs hallway cornering a woman against the wall except she looks like she likes being cornered and

Ivan thinks he might just be a vampire, but he doesn't really care. They're his guests, and maybe in a few weeks he'll be called on to reduce this ex-guest of his to a pile of dried bones, and then he won't care either, but

friendships are so shallow in this echelon, after all.

The Ragabash, and the prince of this particular domain, is up on the second floor. He's up at the top of the spiral staircase and he has a drink in hand and he's overlooking the party. He's alone, and he likes being alone right now. The truth is he doesn't throw these parties for companionship.

He's looking for something closer to ambiance. Energy. The particular reverberation between a concentratedly beautiful crowd and substances of varying legality and a very, very fucking nice crib; the gorgeous, decadent little world he creates for himself. It's why he buys an entire club drinks. It's why he throws party after party after party when the days start to shorten and the lake starts to turn cold. He's lost count of how many there have been since he came to town. Enough that people know him. Enough that people are dying to come, but in all this time

he's never actually invited Hilary. He never really supposed she would be interested. This is not her scene, he thinks. He doesn't know what her scene is.

So. Four hours ago, there was a message on her cell phone:

Having a little get-together at my place tonight. 10pm. Black and white. Wear a mask and bring friends if you want.

And when Hilary arrives, there's no line for her. Evgeny recognizes her. She rides up in an elevator all by herself. Unless, of course, she brought friends.

Except Hilary has no friends.

Of all the parties Ivan has thrown, he's never invited her to a single one, but she's heard of them. She is in his echelon of society, though perhaps in the layer just above his, where the money and the people who hold it are older and more sedate. They think in the long term. They are dying out and wondering why the next generation looks ready to burn itself to dust, where they learned such decadence. Hilary was married into that level, even though her huband was foreign, his money and his name and all his titles older than America's -- older, in fact, than human civilization. She is of a people that once were the only beings sheltered from the Impergium. Even when the Garou turned on the other shapeshifters, they guarded their Kin. Precious, beloved, protected, even at the dawn of time.

She is not like the people who go to his parties. Not as young as they are, though some guests have enough money and enough youthfulness to get there, but she is old in a way that few of them are old. No one here has eyes like hers, dark since birth, comforted by and terrifed of the dark all at once. But she lives in Chicago now, she no longer goes to the yacht clubs or country clubs as often, is limiting her presence there to give the others free rein to gossip -- which they will do anyway. Rumors of divorce. They are not her friends. Her staff can't be considered friends. She has heard of Ivan's parties the way she heard him announced at a nightclub once, and it feels like a long time ago.

It feels like a long time since she's seen him, though it was likely just a couple of weeks. At the cabin, the flogger she gave him slapping repeatedly against her ass, his cock slamming repeatedly into her pussy, his teeth leaving a hard red mark in her shoulder, a vivid bruise, after he couldn't stand it anymore and let the flogger dangle from the strap around his wrist, folding over her and fucking her til he came, sweating over her and against her and snarling at her to keep fucking him, don't you fucking stop.

Odd how they can stay separate for so long.

So: she knows what to expect from these mythological parties of his. Black and white, 10pm. The message came as she was preparing dinner, and she was ever so irritated, smacking down a wooden spoon so hard against the counter that Darya just about jumped out of her skin. And suddenly there was a flurry of demands on Carlisle and Miranda and Darya, because Hilary certainly wasn't going to stop cooking just to get something appropriate to wear. She certainly won't be going as a Sexy Nurse, that's for damn sure.

Dinner was pasta with a peso sauce, served with bruschetta -- she's been on a kick, lately -- and thin, shredded slivers of chicken. She's been feeling Italian lately as well, and perhaps it's solely because she doesn't want to be French or Spanish. Dion has been a beast, and the last time she fought with Ivan -- a month ago, perhaps? -- was because her tension snapped and he, to this day, has no idea what it was really about. She thinks they ended up fucking then, too. In a hotel on the Mile, middle of the day, while people in offices worked and ran around and tours went through the city, with her lying on her back with her legs spread, her heels on because he told her to keep them on, Ivan standing at the end of the bed watching her, opened up and laid out for him, standing as he teased her with his cock, sliding it up and down her slit til she begged for it. Considering that they'd argued for no damn reason, it was all rather pleasant and sweet and enjoyable.

As was the pasta.

It isn't Hilary's Jaguar that pulls up to 450 E. Waterside, nor a limousine. It is, perhaps strangely, a white Bentley, driven by a bearded man in a sleek gray suit. He exits and circles, opens the door and helps his lady out. Someone from high above screams he can fly, but this far down it's a meaningless sound, a shriek taken by the wind, and Hilary merely glances up, then down. The car is unrecognizable; so too is the woman. She is not wearing a low-cut, high-hemmed dress one would wear to the club. Her gown is full, a strapless black bodice adorned with silvery-white designs hugging her to a point just past her hips, where a swath of white fabric hangs, sweeping downward, covered in swirling black designs like the one across her torso. The charcoal-colored underskirts show beneath that somewhat, matching the veil that sweeps down from a comb in her chignon, serving a dual purpose as a sort of shawl. She is wearing long gloves so fine she could pick up a needle from a mirror while wearing them. They are black, and where they end just above her elbows there are white designs embroidered upon the satin, art nouveau swirls that curl downward as though reaching for her fingers, which they'll never hold.

Her mask covers her entire face, held by a thin silver rod. All silver and black, with a sort of tiara at the edge, and an intricate half-mask spiraling out across the eyes -- a mask over a mask.

Over, one could say, a mask.

It's an impressive enough entrance, particularly in the way she simply walks past the line outside, the line in the lobby, and approaches Evgeny, that people stare. Many women would feel like oh no. They overdressed. This wasn't that sort of party. She did something wrong. Hilary ignores the staring, may not even notice it, and removes her mask with a tilt of her wrist for a moment so Evgeny can see her face. He lets her in and up they go, her mask in place again. She does not remove it again at the top, Evgeny saying a word to Max and her clipboard.

Hilary pauses, and watches the couple that may be having sex. Stares at them from behind her mask as though they are putting on a show for her. And this is how she treats most of this party, as she moves on from them and further into the penthouse she has only seen when it is empty, empty, empty. She watches the little game going on. A man who came without a shirt to begin with -- he's a model of some kind -- is stripping down to his boxer-briefs, and there are shrieks of laughter and encouragement, all of them edged with lust, with primality. Hilary watches as one woman kisses another's breast, just at the line of her bodice, like whispering a secret into her decolletage.

The man who wanted to fly is sobbing now, he's so high and he doesn't know what is real anymore, and one of his friends is trying to shut him up and get him calm again while the others distance themselves -- they don't want to be thrown out on his account. Friendships. Shallow.

Hilary isn't even looking for Ivan. She figures he'll find her, sooner or later. So she drifts, a spectator in this slice of everyone's lives, watching their degradation, curious about their flickers of emotion. A man who is dressed in top hat and tails, complete with white scarf and sharp white gloves, approaches her with a covered platter, removing the top with a flourish. She's amused; his mask is simple white, a tiny black diamond under one eye like a tear, and she cannot see anything of his face but that his eyes are blue -- does not even know if he is smiling, as he cannot tell if she is.

Arranged on the platter, on a doily of all things, are neatly spaced rows of pastel tablets. She chooses one imprinted with a question mark and gives him a small nod. The lid goes back on, the man departs, and she wonders if he's doing this because Ivan wants him to or if he's just here of his own accord, because he can, because --

Hilary has stopped caring already. She is facing the windows to the terrace, her back to the fireplace, when she lifts the mask just enough to put the pill on her tongue, swallow it by itself, even as the mask is moving back over her lips.

Of course there are illicit substances here. The guests out on the terrace - the sobbing man and his friends who hope he'll shut up soon so they don't get thrown out, and look, goddammit, someone's already coming out to see what was going on and it's not one of the guests, it's one of the Russians - may well have brought their own, but the gracious host has provided a full complement himself. They're circulating, and it's hard to say if the presentation is an attempt at discretion or some lash of irony.

There are no servants bearing platters for food, for drink. The guests can claw over each other for that, jostle and grind and squeeze into the kitchen. There are no seating arrangements, there's no dainty, delicate china, rows of silverware laid out beside. But there is this: a man in a top hat and tails, offering up ecstasy in a pill.

It should be so simple.

The fireplace is lit. Chicago is already getting cold, and the terrace doors are open. The sheer amount of people and energy and noise in here makes up for it, though, and the long low strip of fire is more decor than necessity. It casts a warm glow, a contrast to the darkness, the empty walls of glass, and the cold lights that burn and pulse to the music. Hilary is standing close enough to feel warmth on her shoulderblades. Over on the couches there's another spike of laughter, catcalls, and every time it sounds a little rawer. Curious thing about human nature, that. Hide the face, hide the evidence, and everyone turns into an animal in the end.

There's a man standing beside Hilary then, and she might think for a moment it's Ivan, but it's not. This man is taller. He's thicker in the chest and biceps, and he doesn't seethe, however subtly, with Rage. He's close beside her and he bends his head to murmur in her ear but

it's too noisy to hear what he's saying clearly. She doesn't need to hear him. His breath smells a little like alcohol, but he's not drunk yet. Behind his mask his eyes are intent, purposeful. He runs the backs of his fingers down her arm, and they are warm

and somewhere far above, leaning indolently on the railing, Ivan's heart gives this unpleasant, hard twist of wrath. He soothes it with a sip, which is so smooth and cold and sweet and absolutely loaded. Nothing betrays itself on his face, though he is one of the few here whose mask does not cover his entire face. Nor is his mask ornate, or delicate, or opulent, or even particularly pretty.

No; Ivan's mask is an unsettling, jagged, hard-edged thing of stiffened leather, all spikes and horns. It is neither black nor white, but the color of old blood: strange and primitive and crude, framing his jaw, baring his mouth. The better to eat you with, one supposes. It's a strange juxtaposition. He's so sleek and groomed otherwise, his waistcoat and slacks impeccably cut. Every last piece of clothing he wears is black.

He saw when Hilary entered. It was impossible not to. He's always mused that he might recognize her even were she masked, even if he couldn't see enough of her body to be sure. He supposes he's right, a bet won against himself. His eyes followed her as she drifts, detached and uncaring. He watches how she watches them, as though they were trained animals putting on a display that bores her. Sometimes he wonders why she bothers to emerge into the world at all. He discovers he's drained his drink, and when he puts it to the side and lets go of the glass one of his silent little maids is there, taking it from him and whisking it away somewhere.

Ivan starts down the stairs. He takes his time. It's dark, there are bodies on the staircase, and he's in no hurry, anyway. When he comes down to the first floor Kolya is coming to meet him, leaning over to mutter in his ear; Ivan follows the direction of the kinsman's gaze and sees the unfortunate sobbing man and his friends, all of them being herded firmly toward the door. Then there's some girl, sloshed, leaning on him crying Ivan, darling! in his ear and he gives her a flashing smile that shows just enough teeth to make her think twice about ever doing that again. Someone else offers him a drink, this is so good, you have to try it, where do you find these bartenders, you must tell me your secret, and he takes it without slowing.

And then he's at the terrace doors, looking out for a moment. Light rain, cold and misty. Refreshing against the oppression of noise and bodies and basslines. When he turns around he's looking right at Hilary. It is impossible for him not to see her. It is impossible for her not to see him. Her would-be paramour is between them, his back to the Ragabash. Another man might charge over, grab the offender by the shoulder, throw down.

Ivan merely watches, his eyes glinting behind his mask, one hand elegantly tucked in his pocket. The other raises his fresh drink; he sips.

In fifteen, twenty minutes, Hilary is going to be soaring. In thirty she will be at one with mankind. Tomorrow she will hate life, hate mankind, hate the world, but this will be so similar to her regular mindset that it will make almost no difference to her. She has no drink in her hand, only the slender rod of her mask held delicately in fingertips that are covered in black satin. She has not gone to sample the fare that has been set out for people in the kitchen and on the tables. Cold air brushes her front, and warmth from the fire assaults her back.

A man comes nearby and she does not look at him, thinking he is Ivan. But his voice is wrong, and when she turns her head just a little toward him, she sees that he's larger, which appeals to her. Muscular and tall, confident enough to approach her. Though obviously foolish, too: he has no idea what she looks like behind this mask. She could be gaunt as a model -- her form is rather slender -- or pockmarked or birthmarked or anything. A muscular, confident fool.

When he touches her she simply allows it, watching his hand as it strokes down her arm. Around the corner a woman gives a fake, laughing moan that is too close to real. Someone has yanked her bodice down, bared her breasts -- of course. It's nearly midnight, they've all become so wild, this part is the best so far, and that's the game. According to the rules she has to kiss this man, and last time he was kissed it was his navel. Lower, lower! some of them chant, and the man laughs. The couches are about to become their own orgy, unless one of the Russians intervenes over there as well.

Hilary likes that they take the flying man away. She likes the edge, the fine line between elegant decadence and tawdry excitement. This is not a place for children. No place around her is a place for children, or childish behavior. She cannot feel Ivan's anger as the man beside her touches her, doesn't know that he's up there, looking like the devil in a black suit, ruling over all of this, watching everything. She only knows that Ivan is here somewhere, and she knows he must know she's here.

He would be able to smell her. Her blood. Her purity. Maybe Max or Evgeny even alerted him. She doesn't care. She knows he must know she's here. He would have to.

While he comes down the stairs, she tilts her head to encourage the man beside her to keep talking, though she can't hear what he says. He whispers closer, his lips brushing her ear, making it tingle. He says some truly filthy things to her, emboldened by her acceptance, his hand moving to her side, knuckles brushing the silk that covers her. Hilary watches the glass, the terrace, the night sky beyond it, while he tells her the things he wants to do to her, the things he wants her to do to him.

Her eyes are looking upward, and everyone else is nothing more than a crush of bodies. She isn't very focused on anything, and her eyes flick to the blonde hair bared by the man who comes from behind and goes to the open terrace doors. In due time he turns, and she can see him looking at her through the eyeholes of his mask,

leather,

the color of old blood,

her own face completely obscured. Even her eyes are impossible to see, the mask veiled from within so that it seems as though there is nothing, no face and no eyes and no soul, wearing it. He can't even tell if she's looking at him, with her chin tilted up a bit, making it look like she's looking at the corner of the ceiling and wall, or a star beyond all of it. The man is standing so close, those knuckles of his brushing against the outer curve of her breast, pressing ever farther.

Hilary doesn't stop him. She lowers her chin a bit and now the eyeholes of her mask are looking at Ivan. Her would-be paramour murmurs in her ear, licks her lobe to punctuate the sentence. She remains standing there, as statuesque and lifeless as that mask makes her seem, staring at Ivan

though he cannot see her eyes.

Hilary is right, of course. There is an edge here, an invisible line vigilantly patrolled by Ivan's staff. There's a method to this madness, and it simply wouldn't do for this to dissolve into some tawdry, screaming, college keg party affair. This is, after all, Ivan Press's party. There's a reputation to uphold. Even infamy is a sort of fame.

So when the moans over on the couch get a little too real, when the players start to edge closer and closer to the obvious and inevitable goal of the game, there comes Kolya again, tall and rawboned. He pauses and bends to speak into Ivan's ear, and for a moment Ivan's eyes,

glinting green and narrowed as a hunting wolf's,

flick away from Hilary, down. He listens. He looks over, considering the scene at the couch. Kolya's eyebrows go up in questioning: how should they proceed? Ivan watches for a moment, then shakes his head.

Leave them. Let's see what they get up to. He doesn't look at Kolya. He looks at Hilary, looks at her staring back at him, though he can't know for certain because her face is hidden, her eyes are hidden, her head is tilting just so, such an elegant and lovely angle, to accept that dart of a tongue to her earlobe, the lips that stray to her neck. Her would-be paramour, who is looking more and more like her to-be paramour, is standing very close now. The front of his shirt presses to her arm. Another few centimeters and he'd be flush against her side, and he's quite likely aroused, hard inside his fine trousers, he probably wants to take her to the couches, those depraved, mouth-foaming couches, bend her over the back and pound her in front of everyone

or maybe that's just what Ivan wants. His eyes fall away from Hilary for a moment. He considers his drink, and drinks, and then - with a sort of slow deliberation - he blinks, his eyes open, he's looking at her again. There's something hungry and dark in his eyes. He wonders if he might share her with another man tonight. He wonders if that's what she wants. He wonders what she'd sound like with his cock in her mouth, the other man railing her from the other side of the couch; he isn't sure if the pounding of his heart is arousal or anger.

Perhaps this party will devolve into an orgy with spectators. Raw sex on couches that will be replaced in the morning, disinterested or horrified parties escaping to the kitchen, the library, the terrace, where they will forget all about it, begin their own wicked games. Perhaps they'll simply be removed from the game, and new players will join, an endless loop of people in various states of undress, no one ever getting to any final place. That is one more illusion in this party: that it can go on forever. That the sun will never rise.

Hilary never moves closer to the man. She never does more than that simple tilt of her head to hear his whispers, though he takes advantage. She is as passive as a doll, and the man doesn't care, she's beautiful, her body is warm, she isn't pushing him away or slapping him across the face. He is of a generation that doesn't understand that the lack of a 'no' does not indicate a 'yes'. All the things he's saying to her are making him hard, yes, and he wants to draw one of those gloved hands down to his crotch and let her feel, whisper

see what you do to me?

when he doesn't even know who she is. Not that he would need to, to fuck her here. Not that he would need to, not at a party thrown by Ivan Press. Ivan is indeed correct, too. The man is talking about fucking her now, ramping up from less immediate murmurs, telling her first how beautiful her body is, her dress, her skin is so soft, he's been watching her since she came in, etcetera. Now he's talking in great, specific detail about his cock, her pussy,

while Ivan is thinking about how he'd feel to share Hilary tonight, watch her getting fucked while she moans around his cock, maybe they could take turns with her mouth.

As for Hilary: she has her own ideas. She lifts her free hand and beckons to him.

There's a second when Ivan doesn't move. Doesn't want to go to her. He's not sure what it is. Some latent anger, or possessiveness: don't you feel, don't you have anything inside you at all, or simple pride. The unwillingness to come when called. He's not a fucking tame animal, after all,

or maybe that, too, is anger. God, he's angry so often when he's around her, even when she begs him, sometimes, to not be so angry with her. He can't seem to help it. With her all emotions turn dark. Want becomes lust. Lust becomes anger, and sometimes he catches himself on the verge of doing things that frighten him. He still remembers his belt across the back of her thighs. His hand across her face.

And remembering, he drains his drink. Again. Was that the third tonight, or the fourth? Doesn't matter. Still less than what most of his guests have been putting away. He crosses the space between - it's not so very far - and this time there's no maid handy to pick up his glass so he just passes it to some unfortunate guest, shoves it rather forcefully against his chest and lets go, forces the other man to either fumble to catch it or let it shatter on the ground.

Later on that'll be a rumor that goes around too. Something to talk about along with how amazing that last party was, I can't wait for the next one, you simply must come with me, it's out of this world. Along with the hushed tittering references to what happened on the couch and what happened in the bedroom. Along with all that, a quieter, more subdued, subtly uneasy rumor that they'll all laugh about and try to forget:

sometimes Ivan gets so intense, and it's like I don't even know him. I swear sometimes he looks at me and I feel like...

Like what?

...I don't know. It's silly.

No, tell me.

Like ... prey. Meat.

Hilary's would-be lover feels Ivan's approach. He turns, unsure of why his spine is tensing; sees the Ragabash strolling up with the old-blood mask bound to his face, his arrogant mouth set into a faint, neutral sort of smile. The paramour thinks of himself as a charming man, a man in control of himself and his destiny and most certainly the women around him; an alpha male, but a gracious one, especially with his host. He shifts aside slightly to include Ivan, but

his hand is still on Hilary's body, he's still standing close to her, and Ivan thinks he can see the wet shine where he licked her ear. Possibly that's his imagination. His eyes linger for a moment, and then go to Hilary's eyes. This close, he thinks he can see them behind her mask,

but possibly that, too, is his imagination.

He completely ignores the other man. That's worth noting, too.

She begs him not to be angry; she goads him purposefully to anger. She teases about him spanking his maid; she balks at the thought of him actually doing so. She adores him, she tells him so, she does truly love him; she lets this man lick her ear and touch her arm like he really is going to pull it down, put her hand on his cock --

but she beckons to Ivan. There it is again: she's so submissive to him, relies on him to take control; she summons him like a servant or a dog or a child.

Ivan is getting himself closer to drunk, and Hilary is waiting for the pill to hit her system in full. She took it like it was deliberate, like she came here knowing, like it was set up just for her, when Ivan didn't even expect her to come. People around them know it's him, recognize his mask for its livid color and strangeness, how it evokes that side of him they all pretend they don't see. The man with Hilary notices him, of course, and yet

he doesn't run. He stays there, touching her, even as Hilary watches Ivan approach.

"Tell one of your maids," she says, her voice raised enough to be heard, but muffled still by her mask, "I want one of those little half-masks. A white one, and not the sort I have to hold. I have a trick I want to play on everyone."

She can't see the upper half of his face. Can't see the quick flick of his eyebrow upward. Can see the odd, ironic tilt to his mouth, though. Can see the way his eyes are sparking and glittering behind his mask, which makes his face devilish, primal.

And then he snaps his fingers. And somehow, like magic, his man is summoned, and of course it's Dmitri, and of course none of the staff are masked. He looks at Hilary. Even without seeing her enter, the effortless way she bypassed the line and showed her face like that alone was all the identification and invitation she needed, Dmitri knows it's her. He knows because he knows his master, knows the way he's staring at her.

A few words are exchanged, and they're mostly in Russian. One of the girls shows up. God knows where they found the mask, but it's there, and the man with Hilary is laughing and wondering aloud what she's up to, secretly a little impatient, and Ivan is curious too but he says nothing as he takes the mask from his maid and, after turning it over in his hand, hands it to Hilary.

"Shall we turn away while you change your mask, then?"

The look in his eyes and the crinkles around them, the twist of his mouth, are all clues for Hilary as to Ivan's mood. It was more difficult for her to learn these facial expressions and their meaning than for most children, but that is beside the point. Or maybe that's the whole story behind the point, which Ivan doesn't know yet. He doesn't know what trick she wants to play. She has stoked his anger, piqued his curiosity, and if he could see her face he might imagine her expression to mean 'pleased' or 'delighted' at this. It's hard even to make out her eyes through the veils, to tell much other than that they are there, and somehow bright despite their dark color and the blackness that surrounds them.

They all wait together for the mask she wants. First Dmitri, who held her son -- and taught Ivan how to hold his son -- on the way to Novgorod. Hilary doesn't know that, yet. Dmitri is just another servant to her. He is sent away, and Hilary remains warming herself by the fire and between two heavy male bodies, both of whom don't know what she's up to, what she plans, what she's going to do with either of them. But at least Ivan knows what she looks like. Who she is. What she feels like when she comes, how she sounds when he makes her scream.

The mask arrives soon enough, and Ivan asks his question. "Of course," Hilary says, still muffled, and she isn't kidding: she doesn't move until they've turned their backs, creating a sort of miniature wall to guard her identity. And she turns her back as well, facing the fire as she moves aside her silvery full mask and instantly covers herself with the white one. Holding it on her face by the bridge of her nose, she sets her own mask down on the hearth so she can reach up and pull the band over her crown, securing it around her head. She removes the comb from her hair and shakes it out, letting it all fall down dark and silky over her neck, down her shoulderblades. The long veil attached to the comb wafts in the breeze from the terrace doors; Hilary drops it next to the mask.

Turning, she smiles -- they can see her mouth now, and the would-be paramour can tell now that he was right, she is gorgeous, even if he can't see the upper half of her face. He can see her dark eyes, her painted lips, the slope of her cheek. That smile is dark, too. And mischevious. "Come along," she tells --them both, it seems,

as she begins to walk around the fireplace,

to where the game is still going on at the couches, the enormous low table kept clean by Ivan's maids rather than littered with cups and plates and napkins. There are a few articles of clothing draped across it, or on the floor, or over the backs of couches.

Almost as soon as Hilary sets her mask down, someone picks it up. Maybe Dmitri. Maybe a maid. It'll be kept somewhere, kept safe, until she comes back for it - if she comes back for it. Until then,

Hilary is shadowed by the two males, one human and one decidedly not. It's the human one that stays closer to her, either unaware or pretending to be unaware of whatever strange ties run between his host and this woman, this masked woman whose disguise was so complete even her eyes were veiled, but he was right, she is gorgeous, she's the most intoxicating woman in here. His hand is on her back, large enough to cover her from midspine to small of back. He has no idea that Ivan wants to put his head through a wall. Would rather cheerfully break his face on the edge of one of his oh-so-modernist, oh-so-minimalist coffee tables.

They approach the couches. The game is still going on, and some of the players look up with interest, with consideration in their eyes. One of the women is taking her turn; she's coyly edging her panties down before she abruptly switches to her stockings, unhooking the button from its eye as the other players groan in protest,

you tease, you saucy little slut,

which gets someone slapped, mock-offended.

There's a row of subwoofers along the walls. This close to them, the beat is stronger than the pulse of their hearts. Everyone's blood stirs to the same rhythm here. When Hilary stops, her newest acquisition presses into her from behind, muttering in her ear. The words are unclear. Something about playing the game, happy to lose for her,

she should put that lovely mouth of hers

yeah, she'd like that, wouldn't she.

Maybe he's high enough, drunk enough, to want a threesome right now. To just want to fuck this woman, with her pale skin and her dark hair and the engima that she brought with her, the privilege. Maybe he can smell her breeding. Maybe all of these humans can, know she's different, as soon as she walks by. It's the mortal man who dares to touch her, though by all rights human and primitive he should not. There is a wolf who is still married to her that would tear that arm off in an eyeblink, who would have yanked his tongue out for licking her, saying things to her. On principle, really. Then there is the wolf who genuinely does feel for her, still and no matter what, and he --

stood and watched her, waiting to see what she would do. Who, in this strange way, understands her better than her husband ever did. Or could. Or will. Better, perhaps, than anyone ever has or will. And he hardly understands her at all.

saucy little slut someone si saying, and then people are starting to get quieter, because they recognize their host, and they don't know this other man but he's large and imposing and this woman

walks like a fucking queen.

One of her two escorts leans into her, presses his cock into her dress, murmurs about undressing her, fucking her, kissing his cock, yes, yes,

and she waves her gloved hand at him over her shoulder, as though he's a fly. "Zip," she snaps at him, and since he cannot zip her dress up any further than it already is, and since despite the annoyed flick of her hand and twist to her mouth, she is telling him

to unzip her dress.

So eagerly, perhaps eagerly enough to get his head torn off, those large hands and thick fingers go to her midback, brushing her hair aside, to undo the little hook-and-eye clasp and begin drawing down her zipper. Someone on the couches protests that that's not how the game is played, wait a second, but someone punches him in the arm, dude, shut up.

If Hilary's nameless lover is offended by the way he's dismissed, it's gone in a second. Better things await him. Zip, she says;

Ivan remembers her saying that once. Was it half a year ago already? In a stairwell, angry, after he'd all but torn her dress down to get his mouth on her, hands on her, something. Zip. She meant up, then.

Right now, she means down. And her would-be lover is so eager, but then who wouldn't be. She stands there so imperious and his big hands undo the clasp, reach for the zipper, he's good at this, he's large and imposing but his hands have practice at this sort of thing, he could have her undone in an eyeblink or slowly, slowly, he thinks maybe he'll unzip her slowly and give everyone a show. He likes that idea. He's thinking of her as his, tonight. His to show off if he wants, and

suddenly his host's hand is on his wrist. Ivan moved so fast, and there's an unexpected strength in his grip. To think, the man looks so young, so charming, such a playboy, harmless. But when he turns his head, deigns to notice this nameless guest of his for the first time, there's a cool menace in the motion. A cold, territorial threat.

"I'll do the honors," he says, quite cordial, "if you don't mind."

Then it's Ivan's hands at Hilary's back. His knuckles against her spine, tracing ahead of the parting of the zipper. All the way down.

Everyone around them is quiet. People who kept on chattering before have silenced now, are watching. The game has stopped. Music still pounds, and people out on the terrace and in other rooms have no idea what is going on. Upstairs there's a philosophical conversation going on -- one man who is halfway to shitfaced is talking about God and Ayn Rand and the Bears -- while one woman eats out another alongside him, and while another man pretends to listen when he's actually watching the third guy, who is kissing one of the girls and stroking his cock. Uh huh, says the second man, sipping his drink, I totally know what you mean.

But downstairs, by the fire and by the couches, Hilary stands where she is, her face cut in half by pristine white, as one man begins to unzip her gown and is stopped. She turns her head to glance over her shoulder, watching from her blurred peripheral vision as the man in the red mask grabs the man whose mask she never even looked at. No one fights back against Ivan. He could snap his fingers and six angry Russian ex-mobsters would toss this man and anyone he knows out on their ass while that blonde bitch strikes their names from her list and they will never be invited back, everyone knows it, and even if they aren't the type to respect their gracious host they know that.

That isn't why Hilary's wannabe lets go of her zipper, though, despite his pride. He feels a wholly different sort of fear when Ivan's hand wraps around hist wrist, and Hilary's lips move in a lazy smile. "Boys," she murmurs, then turns her head back around. Ivan, then. Ivan unzips her gown, all the way past the slope of her spine, til the upper curve of her ass. There are women around here in lingerie, women with bared breasts, but everyone is staring at the three of them. Something is gonig on. Something they can't fathom. They wonder silently if it's planned, if this is a play, if Ivan set this up for them, who this woman is, an actress probably, they've never seen her at these parties before.

Ivan is the first to know, feeling her skin under his knuckles. The stroke is unbroken by lace or strap or satin, a clear line of fair flesh all the way down from her shoulderblades to her waist. Then the man who licked her ear and whispered to her that he would love to see what was under that dress: he sees. The gown parts and begins to slide down her body of its own accord, but Hilary doesn't wait for it to crumple on its own. She lifts her arms and the implication is clear enough for Ivan to take the edges of the fabric and tug the dress all the way down to the floor.

A ripple goes through the crowd. People do gasp, and people even say it aloud, tell each other what they can all see, and hearing it, others turn and come and look to see if it's true,

that this woman is naked, naked but for those black gloves and that white mask, Jesus Christ this guy throws the best fucking parties. She extends her arms, one to either side of her body, for Ivan and for -- let's call him John. For them to help her balance, brace her elbows and hold her hands, while she steps out of her dress and onto the coffee table. Ivan has seen those heels before. Coincidentally she was wearing them that day in the stairwell when he yanked down her dress to lick her, to suckle on her, when they fought so hard. They are black stillettos, the sharp heels all chrome and gleaming. Firelight glints off of them as she steps up onto the table.

Hilary looks down on all of them. She looks up at the second floor, the railings where people are gathered, staring at her, staring at the party. The DJ can see her now too, but he's not looking, he's lost in what he's doing anyway. Hilary's breasts are full and yet still rather high, still impressively firm, no one would ever be able to tell she had a child, because she never fed that child and because she worked her body so brutally to get it back in this shape. This perfect, graceful shape. The bit of hair between her legs is a simple line of black, as it was when Ivan first met her -- first fucked her -- and as it has been for months now since Anton's arrival and departure.

She turns, surveying all of them, but she never looks at Ivan or at the man who asked her if she'd like it if he fed her his cock a little before he fucked her. She'd like that, wouldn't she, a big cock in her mouth and then fucking her pussy, filling it up -- because he was getting so crass near the end, he could say anything, he imagined her lapping it up, loving it, getting wet. And perhaps she was. She is now. She still doesn't look at him, though. Nor does she look at Ivan.

Hilary simply turns again, and

gets down on her hands and knees on the table, her hair cascading down her shoulders to swing gently in front of her. Gets down like that, her knees spread just enough so they can see that she's wet. So they can see her open, wet, willing.

[argh, not 'if they aren't the type to respect their gracious host they know that'! no repeat 'know' bit! change to 'even if they aren't the type to respect their gracious host they fear that']

Everyone is staring.

Everyone is staring when the zipper comes down and the dress begins to part. Everyone is craning, standing on tiptoe, trying to see, is it true, trying to see if it's true and then.

Then this woman, this masked woman none of them have ever seen before, and the few guests here who are even remotely in her stratosphere would be fucking aghast if they knew who this actually was - this woman lifts her arms, and their gracious fucking host, who doesn't look very gracious at all right now, who looks like a demon in his red mask and his clenched jaw, reaches out and grabs her dress and yanks it

brutally,

angrily,

down.

And god, she's naked under it. They all knew it, all hoped for it, but when they see it there's a collective gasp, a ripple in the room. She holds her arms out. Like a fucking queen, more than one person thinks. She doesn't look at either of the men who help her onto that table, which is wide and flat and square, a singular slab of hewn stone. Standing on that square, Hilary turns in a slow circle, and she's not looking at Ivan or John or anyone, really; looking at all of them. Ivan wonders what the fuck is going through her mind. If this is some sort of power trip, some sort of reassertion of her self after so long being bound to Dion's will. If this is empowering for her. It certainly doesn't feel degrading,

not even when she turns her back to him, and gets on all fours, and

his heart is slamming in his chest, he's breathing hard, but then so is everyone. No one else is shedding the sort of black corona Ivan is, though. He's furious, inflamed, all at once. There's a vein beating in his forehead, between the horns his mask gives him. His jaw is nothing but hard angles. He's just staring, his eyes fixed on

the woman he loves,

on her hands and knees in front of two hundred of his shallow, shallow 'friends', and if all of them spontaneously combusted right now he wouldn't give a single fuck. They're all staring at her. Some guy behind him is jostling for a better look, hissing between his teeth, saying jesus that's a sweet pussy, god she's dripping wet and Ivan nearly falls on him and tears his throat out with his teeth. His flat, homid teeth. Ivan nearly falls on Hilary

and tears into her with lip and tongue, eats that fucking sweet dripping pussy of hers until she's screaming, he can see it so clearly in his mind's eye, her cheek pressed to the table, hands grasping at stone, pussy presented for him, wet slathering down his chin. He's so hard it aches, so angry it burns.

Emotional turmoil isn't a problem for John. He's the first to snap the trance. He sucks a breath in and his zipper goes down and he steps in behind Hilary and his cock is out and in his hand, slapping against Hilary's ass, when Ivan says behind him,

audible because it's grown so quiet, audible because he's deadly cold:

"Step back, or I will throw you off the balcony."

which makes John hesitate. What the fuck, he starts to ask; thinks better of it and takes a step back. It's silent, everyone's holding their breath, and Ivan goes and kneels by the table, puts his hand on the back of Hilary's neck - her hair stirs aside, falls like water - he leans in and quiet as it is, they can't hear what he murmurs in her ear,

(what do you want?)

and when he draws back he's trying to read her face, and for once that question is not a furious demand. There's a sense -- no, a certainty -- that he would give her whatever she asked for. Himself. John. Every man in the room if she wanted it, regardless of cost and consequence.

He doesn't have to like it, though.

The penthouse throbs with the energy of all these people who don't care about each other, and with the heavy base lines of the music the DJ is laying out for them, wrapping them all in, holding them together with. The heartbeat of all the energy now is not the music though, it's this tableau playing out in the grand living area. The music beats in their veins, but as fast as it is, it's nowhere near as rapid as Ivan's own heartbeat.

As for Hilary, she's impossible to read. Most of the time it seems that she has no feelings, none at all, but when even one is touched on, it erupts into that pure rage that lives in the core of her fractured soul. She must want this. She must want to be bared like this. She came naked, she put herself on display though she could sense the heat of Ivan's fury twining with his lust. It feels familiar like this, his rage and his desire inextricably locked together, both staying in tight orbit around her.

Her pussy is so wet. Ivan can see that, too, and it hints at how she feels, because no one has stroked her or touched her enough to make her that wet, her thoughts must be spinning around this, but even that is just guesswork. He wonders if it's about power, but she gets on her knees, she bares herself -- presents herself like a bitch in heat -- and she seems to be waiting, wanting, but he doesn't know why she's doing this, what she really wants,

and Ivan never assumes that what she really wants is him. He never assumes he can trust that, believe it, no matter what. She lets this other man touch her, lets him lick her and brush his hand over her breast and she lets him follow them to the table, what does she want? He's not a man, though, he's a wolf, and she is not his mate, and the ground under him never feels like anything but shifting sand because of it. Every time they fuck. Every time she murmurs something secret to him. He can never have faith in her, because she isn't his. And it drives him mad, because he doesn't want her to be his -- he wouldn't love her if she was his.

Cracks. Cracks running through everything.

People are beginning to edge away from Ivan. Including John, who wants to fuck this woman so goddamn much. When he steps forward she can hear his pants unzip and she breathes in; her eyes are on the people on the couch just a couple of feet from her, watching them as they're watching it all, their jaws hanging. John takes out his cock and Hilary, not knowing who it is, not looking back to see who it is, bites her lower lip as it slaps against her ass, lets out a whimpery little gasp that, to most, just looks like her lips parting, mouth opening soundlessly, her voice replaced by music.

Hilary hears Ivan's voice, vicious and threatening, and she realizes whose cock is lying against her skin. But she doesn't recoil suddenly, get up with a shriek, scramble away from John. She remains where she is, as though she's under orders to stay there on her hands and knees and get fucked like she's supposed to. Her pussy is still so wet, her arousal turning her cunt pink and aching. John moves away and Hilary waits for Ivan's hand across her ass, his cock rubbing over her pussy, but it doesn't come.

He does, though. Around to her side, his hand on her neck, asking her what she wants, only he doesn't get that far. what do you-- and she shakes her head, resisting his hand on her neck for the first time he can remembering, almost a childish refusal to hear that question, a pulling away from it. People watching may imagine he said something awful, a threat, a warning of how hard he was going to fuck her. Their hearts are slamming in their chests. So is hers.

He's kneeling by her and he's trying to search her face and she's not even looking at him and they are the focus, the focal point of this room, this party, the entire fucking world.

Right now the universe doesn't seem to exist outside of Ivan's penthouse. There's no breath that isn't run through with basslines, the smell of alcohol and arousal. There's no light outside of the light that gleams off walls, casts ghostly and blue-green from the neons and the lasers, burns dull red from the fire. There's no one else out there, nothing except for this world of black and white, black and white and flesh, and the old-blood red of Ivan's mask.

She's not looking at him. She's not even looking at him and what he feels for her, which is so complex and so dark, twists into a knot inside him. He seizes her by the hair and a woman on the couch gasps audibly and he twists her head around, kisses her so hard, so ferociously, that no one can mistake what it is:

domination, a claim, a statement,

mine.

Then he gets up. He pushes her head down as he stands, her hair swinging forward. His eyes meet John's for a moment as he comes around behind her, and the other man takes a step back and aside. Hilary can't see this. If she lifts her head she'd see the man across from her licking his lips, though, a quick nervous flick of his tongue, his hand dropping. He's rubbing himself through his pants, his eyes fixed on her breasts behind his mask. The woman beside him looks uncomfortable, keeps looking away,

keeps looking back.

And then Ivan is behind her, his left hand touching the small of her back, caressing her ass very slowly, very gently, quite lovingly. He's undoing his pants with his right. Just the fly, leaving the button where it is, leaving his shirt and his tie and his vest and all the rest of it alone. Oh shit, oh my god, no way, someone whispers somewhere in the background, realizing where this was going, but no one in their immediate circle says a thing. One of the men on the couches stands up, it's the model in his boxer briefs, his arousal plain, his intention plain, but Ivan stares him down, stares him back,

she's his,

he slaps her ass hard to punctuate it, knowing she'll gasp, knowing she'll whimper. Then he's looking at her back, the fine line of it, that sweet drop of her spine, that smooth curvature of her ass and

oh, she's so wet, he runs his fingertips down her slit and then he's taking his cock out, and this time it's his cock laying against her ass as he pulls her back by the hips, rubs against her with one smooth thrust of his hips. In the next moment he pushes her forward, a little rough, holds his cock in his hand and lines himself up and fits himself inside,

grabs her hips and pulls her back as he slams forward into her.

More than a little rough. He doesn't make a sound, but his nostrils flare beneath the mask and his jaw is tense, he's holding her by the hips and giving it to her so hard; some of his guests are turning away in shock and disgust and they won't be back, and others are coming in for a closer look, and there are whispers and gasps and sighs but no one yells, no one says a word. He doesn't give a fuck. He does not give a fuck. He fucks her in front of everyone, takes what is his, gives her what she wants, and what was always hers.

What no one here seems to understand is that there are lines. Lines that shouldn't be crossed, no matter how debauched the party seems, no matter how wild it gets, no matter how high or drunk you are. They are the lucky guests of one of the richest men in Chicago, and though plenty of them are celebrities in their own right, it's something of a statement to be going to one of Ivan Press's parties instead of some nightclub. You simply do not try to fly off the terrace and ruin the night for everyone. You don't have an orgy on the couches; you take that business upstairs and close the door, for god's sake. You certainly don't tsk your tongue or sniff at the air in judgement of ecstasy being offered on a silver platter; that's just rude.

Or perhaps they all know those are the lines, those are the rules. Here is another rule for them all to add: their host has no rules. He threatens to throw a man off a balcony. He has a woman -- they all assume she's been hired, see, or she's one of his girlfriends that he talked into this, it must have been planned -- strip down and bend over on a table in front of everyone because he can. The rules are there to keep them in line, not him. They are the cattle. The herd. The prey. And he wears a blood-red mask that looks all the more livid in the lasers and the firelight, his body sheathed in shadow as he comes around the table next to this woman, her skin pale enough to gleam despite the darkness. Because of the darkness.

Without any words being spoken, they all understand now, as Ivan clenches his fist in the woman's hair and gives her a mauling, territorial kiss. Those close enough can hear her let out a moan, see her eyes close through the holes in her mask. No one else was ever going to be allowed to fuck her unless it was his pleasure to let them, to watch, to have some other woman suck his cock at the same time -- anything at his pleasure. Everything, at his pleasure.

For his pleasure.

Including, especially, this woman in the black gloves and white mask.

When Ivan pushes her head down after that kiss, Hilary lets out a little cry, and everyone nearby can see she's panting. Everyone can see how flushed her cheeks are, how red her lips are from Ivan's mouth. They wonder if she's on something, or what she's on, because she seems so fearless to be exposed like this. She must be a whore. They simply can't come up with any other options. But now there are people who are touching themselves at this spectacle. The rather demure-looking girl whose breasts were being kissed earlier in the game, the girl who blushed and hid her face and laughed nervously, is surreptitiously rubbing herself through her panties, biting her lip, hoping everyone is looking so much at the show that they don't notice what a bad, bad girl she's being.

Hilary watches the man stroking his cock, her expression one of lust that has become almost mindless, but then she closes her eyes. Her back arches and stretches out under Ivan's stroking hand, as languid as a cat. Anticipation is making her pussy undulate. She doesn't see the model stand up, wanting to put his cock in her mouth, doesn't see Ivan stare him down, but she feels his hand around the small of her back and she winds her hips. For that she gets a slap across her skin and her gasp is almost a yelp, her cunt -- yes, young man in the back -- fucking dripping wet. It reacts when Ivan touches it, quivering the way it does when he's driven her so far into that submissive state she enters that even slapping her seems to make her come.

She isn't saying a word. She's just starting to let out quick, rhythmic whimpers. They sound like nonverbal pleas, her body beginning to rock on hands and knees: a wanton mimicry of fucking, her hair swinging. Ivan has to grab her hips to hold her still, hold her in place while he rubs his cock against her. Almost instantly he's slippery from her, and every time the lights flick over their bodies, the crowd ripples with gasps, with shock, with hushed exclamations that are getting less surprised and more aroused by the iteration.

But Hilary could care less if this devolves into an orgy. Hilary's world is this: Ivan is behind her, holding her, and he slapped her once, he'll do it again if he likes. His cock is against her, and she knows it wouldn't matter whose cock was against her as long as it was Ivan willing it. But it's his, and that is glorious -- that is proof of how good she is, how adored she is. She's been good enough that he's going to fuck her himself, let her have his cock. Glorious, glorious. Good girl. Very good girl.

The cry she lets out when he slams her onto his cock is louder and more raw than any sound she's made. The stone under her knees is uncomfortable but, truth be told, she will be so happy to have scraped knees after this. Will smile as she touches the rubbed-red skin, smile at the sting and the pain, maybe even be naughty and hide it from Ivan so he doesn't heal them. People watching them are now wordless, staring, touching themselves or turning away in discomfort. Some stare in sick fascination even though they will never come back, will be too afraid of it, too afraid of how it made them feel.

They are ants. They don't even exist.

There is a pale woman in a white mask kneeling on a table in front of a fire, and their black-clad, demon-masked host is standing behind her, fucking her like she's nothing more than his own personal slut. She's moaning like one, loud enough now that even people who were, somehow, unaware of all this are looking over, wondering what asshole is watching porn on his iPad at this party or what. But those who are close enough, who get close enough, who stand and sit around and watch and touch themselves and each other, feel like they are caught up in some painting of what hell could really be like, feel like the sinners they all know they are,

watching Satan fuck the Whore of Babylon.

They're all watching. They're all staring, all his guests, watching him fuck this beautiful woman, this masked slut, watching him pound her like she's nothing but a piece of ass, nothing but flesh for sale. She's a whore, she must be, god knows how much he paid for her but she must be bought. They're staring, and their hearts are pounding and some of them are touching themselves and waiting their turn and others are hoping no one notices how turned on they are and still others are telling themselves this is sick, this is depraved, they can't believe this is happening and they are never ever coming again but

they don't look away either.

Ivan doesn't look at anyone but Hilary. His eyes are on her, and because he can't see her face he watches her body, watches what her body tells him, the shivers down her back and the way her arms quiver when he grabs her and slams her back and holds her right there while he grinds on her. He watches her and how she reacts when he slaps her ass, and once he starts slapping her ass he doesn't stop, he hits her with great careless arcs of his arm, forehand and backhand, smacking her until her pale skin is pink, smacking her while he hammers her, and it's hard to say which beating is the more brutal.

Somewhere out there, they have a son. A son who Ivan sometimes thinks, in delusional little fantasies that flash through his mind in glimpses and instants, maybe they could raise together. They could move out from the city. They could live on his estate, the one with the tiny cabin by the lake that is theirs and no one else's. They could bring their son back from Russia after Dion has divorced her; they could raise him in relative isolation, living quiet, private lives, he could learn to be a good man, she could learn to be a human being,

they could do that. They are capable of that sort of emotion, that depth of attachment. Of course they are.

These two creatures, these depraved things coupling on the stone table: they had a child together. And the things they do, not just this but all the things they do, all the careless chaos they wreak because the rules simply don't apply to them -- the things they do make it absolutely impossible, absolutely unthinkable, for them to try and raise a child. They are not ... whole. There is something wrong with them, and they destroy everything they touch, and the best thing they ever did for their son was to abandon him.

So somewhere out there, there's a little boy who will grow up thinking his father is some kind of hero, his mother is pure and innocent and died very young; and as he grows older Ivan will spend an obscene of money, a sick amount of influence, to ensure that he never, ever, ever hears the truth. Will never hear a breath of a rumor of what his father did one Halloween, will never hear a shadow of a tale that his mother isn't dead, just a whore,

a slut,

bending over, begging for it.

Oh, he's so angry at her, he can't believe she did this, pulled this stunt. Oh, he's so glad she did this, he's so glad she came and stripped naked and bent over and it's never been like this before, never, not even for him. He's standing with his feet apart and his hands are locked on the crests of her hips and that cunt of hers is so tight, so hot, so wet, there's wetness soaking through the front of his pants and the way she cries out, the way those cries hitch every time he pounds into her

is making his guests flushed and hot, is making them touch themselves, touch each other, shift and lean to get a better look, mutter to each other,

yeah, look at that, she wants it,

is making Ivan's hand shift to her shoulder, he's gripping so tightly, his teeth are clenched so hard against the groans and worse, the growls, the animals snarls that want to rip out of him. There's nothing sweet about this, nothing slow and tender; it's a headlong, mad plunge into the darkest sort of ecstasy.

and when he comes it hits him like a sledgehammer, makes him lean over her and grip her shoulders with his hands, makes him lean all his weight into her as he drives into her three, four times, stays deep inside her as he bends over her, puts his brow to her shoulder for a moment, gasping, panting.

He kisses her once, then. Not her mouth, and not viciously, but

so softly, his lips against the center of her back, between the delicate arcs of her shoulderblades.

When Ivan straightens again, his touch is heavier, lazier. He pushes himself up right, and then he takes Hilary by the shoulders and pulls her upright. He's still inside her, his cock filling her, shifting inside her as she moves. She's so fucking beautiful, someone breathes, lusting, and it's true. She's so fucking beautiful. The firelight gives her pale skin some warmth; the lasers make her look out of this world. Against the all-black of his clothing, she's aglow, and his hand slides between her legs, plays with her clit for a moment, moves up her torso, lifts a breast in his palm and lets go, moves on, pushes her head back so he can kiss her neck, bite her, vampirelike himself.

Lifting his head, he looks at his spectators. Deigns to notice them for the first time. His eyes scan the couches, the women with their lips wet, the men with their heads tilted, their eyes low. He finds a man sitting at the turn of the couch, his drink forgotten in his hands. He's a little younger than the rest. He's broadshouldered. He looks obedient, uncertain; a beautiful idiot, Ivan thinks savagely, and this is the man he nods over.

"Get on the table," Hilary hears him say; that low, courteous tone of his, authority bleeding from every word. "On your knees. Suck her tits. Slowly. There you go."

And then somehow he's talking to Hilary instead. He's murmuring her ear, softer now, reaching down to touch her between her legs, so slowly, so very slowly,

"There you go. That's it. Feel it. That's my good little whore."

That whore is screaming now, her ass slapping back against Ivan's, his hand smacking off of her skin, sweat glistening on her back as he pounds her, jaw clenched, teeth bared. The way she's fucking moaning and wailing, Ivan is the only one who can tell when she's coming, which is so soon after he begins thrusting that he should laugh at her, swear at her, grab her hair and ask her if she likes it that much. Her cum slicks his cock, wets his pants, is shining on her inner thighs. He's going to make her come again, fucking her like this. Ivan knows she likes it like this.

No one watching them would be able to tell they've been lovers before, that he loves her, that when she can feel anything but apathy and anger she loves him, too. No one can ever know about their son, their baby, Anton, who is just six months old but the latest information from his nurses has a video of him pushing himself up from his stomach and rocking back and forth. Anton is almost ready to start crawling. He has almost no hair. They put him in cloth diapers and he slobbers all over his rattle, because it is shiny and engraved with his name. There are voices in Russian urging him to wave to his daddy, wave hello, hello, and perhaps Ivan will write back and instruct them not to fill his ears with such nonsense as he gets older. Don't 'wave to daddy'. Don't make him imagine he has any kind of relationship with this man.

This man: this demon, fucking his whore on a stone table that is no more an altar than his bed is, however ritualized the designs are. Grabbing her hips and grunting as he slams himself home again and again and again, her pussy quivering all around him as she comes again for him, moaning out a cry that undulates and trembles in the air as much as her cunt does around Ivan's cock. Someone else moans in the crowd; someone is fingering that woman, muttering in her ear to watch, watch it, yeah, you like to watch, but those two are about to get kicked out by Ivan's Russians. They aren't to draw attention away from Ivan and his bitch. Not that they could: it truly is a spectacle, salacious and unforgettable. Unthinkable.

She does want it. The people whispering so are right, they can see all over her face just how badly she wants it. Those behind her, behind Ivan, can see how wet she is, can watch as his cock pounds into her. John, the would-be paramour, is rubbing himself through his pants, watching transfixed, knowing once he gets his turn at that sweet little pussy he's going to cum on her back, on her ass, make a real mess of her,

yeah.

If he -- if anyone -- could hear the snarls that Ivan is holding back, they'd be terrified. He wouldn't sound human. He'd sound like a real animal, a true devil, and they would wonder just how badly he might be hurting that woman, except she keeps getting louder, crying out, she likes it, Jesus. Best party ever. Best fucking party in the world. This is insane.

Ivan is insane. Hilary has to be, letting him do this -- wanting him to do this. She shrieks aloud when he bites her, clutching at the edge of the table, arching her back to press her ass harder to him, put his cock deeper in her cunt. They've devolved from some piece of depraved art into this, into something animal, and people are riding a razor's edge between arousal and fear, primal need and confusion. Hilary bucks against Ivan's body, bouncing herself on his cock as she comes for the third time, her entire body trembling, but she may as well be struck by lightning. She may as well be electrified, awakened, alive.

There is this one moment, though, and everyone misses it: that kiss on her back, Ivan's mask brushing her skin, his lips pressing to her sweat-soaked body for a moment. She's panting, shuddering for air, her head hanging forward as she rocks, just like before, squeezing him inside in slow waves.

They know it can't be over. The room is silent now that Hilary has stopped screaming. The music has died for the moment, even the DJ at a loss as to what to do, what the hell, what the fuck, man. But they know this can't be the end, and they don't know what to do -- erupt into applause, start fucking themselves, get in line to use Hilary, get in line to suck Ivan off, what.

It isn't over. He draws himself up but not out of her, pulling Hilary with him. Her knees dig into the stone. Strands of her hair stick to her face. She's gasping, panting, her eyes closed, and she's shaking. Her arms are still clad in black satin, hanging at her sides. so beautiful, someone says. It doesn't make her open her eyes to look for her admirer. She tips her head back against Ivan, only stretching herself out further, showing herself off as he runs his hands over her. A moan cracks through the air as he rubs her clit, a pained and yet erotic sound. Her breast bounces slightly when he lifts it, caresses it, lets it go.

Like a vampire, he bites her neck. Hilary shudders.

The young bloodsucker isn't watching, isn't wondering what Ivan is. He's taking full advantage of this situation, feeding on a horny young man in the bathroom, getting high off of the ecstasy in his blood, thanking Cain for hot blood and stupid mortals, for free drugs and human hormones. He won't kill him, of course. Too many people, too much notice, and he's pretty sure his host is a werewolf. He doesn't want to be a bad guest, after all.

For a long time, Hilary's eyes are closed. Ivan's cock is still inside of her. She must have pleased him, made him happy, he wants to keep fucking her. She wants to keep getting fucked. Her eyes drift open but they're glazed over, looking at the people who watch them lazily, like she's in a trance. The E has hit her, and the colors in the room are glorious, beautiful, she can almost touch them. And Ivan feels like silk. All of him. He really is a demon, he's the prince of darkness, he picked her, he's going to fuck her but she's so perfect, she's perfect, this can go on forever. She's so wet she wants to laugh about it. For no good reason at all that she knows, a pretty young thing with nice arms stands up from the couch and comes toward them.

She wonders if Ivan is going to kill him, or tell the man to fuck her. She watches, and she reaches behind herself to stroke her silk-covered fingers over the back of Ivan's head, her arm cocked outward and her back arched, her breasts forward.

get on the table, says the low voice of a distant god, and the pretty young man does, and she smiles, her mouth crooked and lazy.

on your knees, sayeth the Lord, and Hilary wonders if he's going to tell the boy to lick her cunt, lick Ivan's cock with it, she wonders and she's so curious to see what he'll do.

Time lapses, pauses, and flows again, and there's a young man on his knees in front of her, as she is on her knees. He's cupping her breasts in his hands and he's licking her obediently, then hungrily, and god tells him to go slow so he goes slow, starts licking her nipples in long circles, and there's a man in the crowd who groans aloud, but that is also the voice of the man who is sucking her breasts, they're all groaning, it's all the same man, the same groan, and Hilary whimpers. Ivan is playing with her pussy again and she arches like he just struck her, bounces on his cock, bounces her breasts in the man's face, trembles, answers the still, steady voice in her ear with a prayer:

-- it's in French. Whatever she cries out, it's in a language Ivan doesn't know. Many of his guests do and they react, gasp, moan, whisper translations to each other, but he doesn't need one. He knows what's going to happen, what she's going to do.

The man Ivan called over unzips his pants, and Hilary doesn't know, but she's moaning again, her pussy a slippery mess of her cum on Ivan's cock.

Hilary came so hard and she came so often. She feels liquid in his arms now, and her skin is so hot. He thinks she must be on something. It doesn't seem to matter very much. He doesn't think for a moment she only did this because she's on something. She did this because she's Hilary, but no one else knows that. She did this

to drive him insane, maybe. Or to please him. It's hard to say. Sometimes she wants so badly to please him; other times she goads him to fury on purpose, relentlessly, laughs when he bites her and pins her down and fucks her with all the force and ferocity of burning black anger.

But he's not thinking of that right now. He doesn't really think right now, per se. He exists in the moment, the heavy, liquid moment, which drips from one instant to the next. He holds her captive against his body. She doesn't really want to leave, anyway. He has a young man, a pretty young thing with nice arms that he knew she would like, he knows her type, he knows her so fucking well sometimes but he hardly knows her at all -- he has this pretty young man sucking on her tits and he's touching her, he's playing with her clit, he's getting her off

again

and she's so wet, her wetness slicks down his cock as she squirms through another whimpering, moaning orgasm.

Someone somewhere moans. The woman on the couch, eyes closed, shuddering through her own empathetic orgasm, clutching at the forearm and the shoulder of the man beside her. Their masks clink together as he lays his brow to her temple, laughing low and dark, muttering

yeah, you liked that, didn't you, keep watching, look at her squirming on that hard cock, I'm going to get you off again, that's right,

and they'll be ushered upstairs or tossed out soon enough. If they see each other again after tonight, they won't recognize each other.

The boy Ivan handpicked for Hilary is still sucking and kissing and licking her breasts. His cock is in his hands and he's stroking himself mindlessly, but he's still attending to her. What a good boy, Ivan thinks, sardonic and dark in the confines of his own mind, behind the mask. He wonders just how many good boys Hilary has, and he wonders

why he's not ripping that tongue out, tearing that pretty face off.

The boy sits back on his heels, panting. "Can I -- ?" he asks, unsure of how to ask; somehow the words fuck her now seem to embarrass her when stroking himself off while sucking her tits didn't. Ivan considers the boy, and his fingers never stop. He's still playing with Hilary, fondling her, idly, which is a sort of mercy. He gives her a moment to come down from that orgasm. Gives her a moment to breathe.

Her skin is so hot.

The boy never gets an answer to his question. Ivan's hand leaves Hilary's cunt, and then he scoops her up in his arms. Carries her like a fucking bride. Nevermind that she's slick with sweat, her inner thighs are slick with cum, her pupils are blown. There's a ripple of disappointment; they think he's carrying her up to bed. Show over.

They're wrong. He's not going anywhere. He lifts her off the table and he turns around, he sits himself at the edge of the table and he sets Hilary down on his lap. His feet are flat on the ground, planted apart. He arranges this slut, this whore, this woman he loves: he opens her legs and hooks her knees over his thighs, spreads her wide open for everyone to see. They can all see her, her wet, swollen, thoroughly fucked cunt, the sheen of sweat between her breasts. They can all see Ivan touching her body, rubbing his hands over her like she belongs to him, reaching between her legs to stroke her cunt,

slide his fingers in her cunt,

a man somewhere groans fuck, someone else mutters something about getting in line for a piece of that, and then Ivan is withdrawing his fingers from Hilary's cunt, feeding her taste back to herself. They all see that.

Not all of them see how he kisses her behind her ear. No one but Hilary feels his cock twitching against her back, so very hard again. No one but Hilary hears him murmuring in her ear:

that's my beautiful little whore,

before he kisses her again and draws his fingers from her mouth. And there's the man who first approached Hilary tonight; there's John again, rubbing himself through his pants, thinking of all the filthy shit he was going to do to that sweet little cunt once he gets his turn, and Ivan is looking at him, his eyes hard and cold behind the blood-red mask.

"Put a condom on," he says, so level and low. John looks at a loss for a moment, but the line is clear in the sand; it'll be this or nothing at all. All those fantasies of coming on her skin, in her cunt, on her tits, in her face - that's not for John. That's not for anyone else.

None of this is for anyone else. All of this, in the end, is for Hilary.

John's found a condom somewhere. He's unzipping, dropping his pants, and Ivan is looking about to look for the boy, the beautiful idiot who so eagerly lapped at Hilary's breasts. He doesn't even nod this time. He snaps his fingers at the boy, calls him over like a servant, like a dog, leans back so that Hilary leans back with him, her back to his chest, his arm secure around her waist. He wants her to feel secure. Held. He wants her to know he's here, he has her, she's safe even if he's displaying her to a room of strangers, inviting strangers to come and

"Get your mouth back on those tits," he says, and the boy does, half-kneeling on the table, leaning in at an angle, half-awkward, so eager, trying to go slow while his hands fumble on his cock. Ivan is watching him, watching Hilary, watching her face and the flicker of her eyes behind her mask. "Make her moan," he mutters,

and John is stepping up, condom on, ready to go. Ivan looks at him, and he still wants to toss the man off the terrace, still wants to break his face on the edge of the table,

but what he does is put his hand on Hilary's thighs. He spreads her open for the stranger who's wanted to fuck her all night, holds her legs open for him, someone watching in the back cranes his neck for a better view, there are so many eyes fixed on Hilary's cunt right now, watching every quiver, every undulation, every viscous shine of slick. Somewhere on the couch the man fingering the woman mutters to her: I want to see you lick her cunt, and she's coming again, she's coming on his hand and moaning and squirming and

Ivan's Russians are interrupting the moment, tapping them on the shoulder, get out, you're being disruptive. No one's looking at them anyway. Everyone is looking at Ivan with Hilary laid open on his lap, Hilary with the young man at her breast, Hilary with a second -- no, this would be a third -- man standing before her, his cock in his hand, waiting to fuck her.

And Ivan tells him:

"Get on your knees. Give it to her."

She's flying. Ivan is holding her and she's flying, she can't feel the stone table digging into her knees and she can't feel anything but the young man's -- let's call him Max -- tongue on her breasts, and Ivan's cock in her, his arms around her, his breath curling and coiling below her ear. Oh, she's happy. She is not in turmoil, not afraid, though perhaps she should be. Perhaps she should fear what this is doing to Ivan, but

Ivan is in control. She belongs to Ivan. She can trust him.

Even if Ivan doesn't know why he isn't killing Max, killing John, sending them all out of here, roaring at them to leave before he puts Hilary down on the couch and fucks her again, punishingly, brutally, as though it will soothe him. Or change her. Max wants to know if he can fuck her now. Ivan stares at him, stroking his whore, who has tears running down her cheeks under her mask, but she looks so blissful otherwise, so overcome, so happy.

They move. She wraps her arms around his neck when he lifts her up and lays her head on his chest for a moment, so close. She listens to his heartbeat and she loves him so much, she wonders if he knows how much she loves him, how he is like god, how deeply she belongs to him. She tells this to him in her thoughts. He can hear her thoughts. They're beautiful, the two of them, and they make this whole room colorful and alive and beautiful, beautiful, glorious.

When he lays her out on him she sprawls, moves around, gets comfortable, running her hands over her body. The satin feels incredible; the room sees her still turned on, still stroking herself, those black gloves cutting across her pale skin but the nuance and subtlety of the contrast is lost now, it doesn't matter to any of them, they want to see fucking. They want to see her get fucked, they want to fuck her, fuck each other, they have become animals. The ones that want to leave have gone, are horrified and upset and there are men who will hate Ivan now for what they see him to be now, have no respect for him anymore, women whose minds are blasted with what they've seen,

and the rest are animals, raw and drunk and high and primal now, in the midst of all this human-seeming opulence.

Hilary laughs, out of nowhere, as she touches her breasts. Ivan fucks her with his fingers and she smiles as she wraps her mouth around those fingers a moment later, sucking them like they're his cock, moaning, licking between his digits, while men groan and a woman whimpers. Her ass rubs against him. She opens her eyes and twists her head to look up at Ivan, smiles at him the way she has maybe once, maybe twice in his dreams or on some rare morning when they woke up together and she wasn't miserable. She nuzzles him, and he tells her she's a beautiful little whore, to which she nods lazily. He tells John to put a condom on, and Hilary looks at John, vaguely recognizing him.

Someone just tosses a condom at John, and someone else titters a hushed laugh, and Hilary flashes a grin at him, biting her lip as though daring him to do it faster, roll it on that cock, fuck her. Meanwhile Max is being called back to her breasts and Ivan is telling him to make her moan like it's a warning, like he'd goddamn well better. Hilary arches her back, and her cunt tilts toward John, her breasts toward Max, and

they descend on her like animals at Ivan's word, and yes. She does moan. She arches as Max reaches with his hand to touch her while he licks her, touch himself, opens her legs at the urging of Ivan's hands, takes it

when John gives it to her. He grunts, swearing vehemently, he's been wanting this so long. He looks down at her, not at her face or Max or Ivan but at her cunt taking his cock, muttering about how wet she is, god what a fucking whore, yeah, take it, fuck. There is no gentle lovemaking here, no steady ramping up. He saw how Ivan fucked her. He knows how he wants to fuck her. Max is groaning on her tits, John pounding her, panting already, and Hilary is squirming around on Ivan's lap.

Against Ivan's chest. Moaning

Ivan's name.

"Shut your mouth," Ivan snarls as John starts to mutter, starts to let all that filth he spilled in Hilary's ear earlier come deluging forth anew. "This isn't for you."

Because it's not. Everyone else here can see that, sense that, even if John can't. They're all animals now, they're all raw and out of their minds with lust and later in the privacy of the guest rooms or nearby hotel rooms or their own bedrooms they'll claw at each other, bite and slap at each other, fuck each other thinking of the way Hilary got fucked tonight, the way she presented herself for the fucking and was pounded, stroked, licked, sucked, held, displayed, fucked all over again,

and again and again. They'll think of that and get off to that, fuck each other with a savagery unmatched before or very likely since, and even now there are groans on the air, there are hands rubbing and stroking, there are couples and threesomes forming, the male model has a girl pressed to his back, her arms around his waist and her hands in his boxer briefs, and both their eyes are, like nearly every other set of eyes here,

fixed on Hilary, her black-gloved hand reaching back to wrap behind Ivan's neck, her face turned to his chest, her breasts bouncing in Max's hand, bouncing against Max's tongue, bouncing as John pounds her, teeth bared, fists planted on the table's edge.

Ivan has his arms around her again. They're wrapped around her middle, somewhere between Max's mouth and John's cock, holding her fast against him. She moans his name and he kisses her brow fiercely, high up past the line of her mask. I'm here, he whispers, and he bends to her, and this time when he kisses her it's her mouth, he kisses the moans from her mouth as she's taking it, taking what John gives her except

really

it's what Ivan gives her. Is giving her even now, holding her, his hand coming up to cup over her head, keep her safe. I'm here. Let go. Feel it. Take it for me. Feel it.

And when John comes, he knows better than to bite Hilary, kiss her, any of that. He comes the way he fucked Hilary - hard, savagely, slamming into her so hard someone somewhere says Jesus Christ, someone else shifts and groans under his breath - and then he's panting, lifting his head at last and looking past Max, looking at Hilary's face, or what he can see of it.

She's not looking at him. Her face is turned to Ivan's chest. There are tears on her cheeks, but her expression is sublime, her mouth is open and she's moaning or she's panting, she never looks at the man who just fucked her, wanted to fuck her all night. She may never have looked at his face at all.

And then Ivan, this dark, sleek thing behind her, holding her, displaying her and guarding her and possessing her all at once, is planting his hand on John's chest and shoving him back. He's saying something in Russian, saying it while looking past the heaving crowd, and very few of them understand but the meaning is clear enough all the same. Get him out of here.

No one cares about John. No one cares that he's still pulling his pants up when Ivan's people grab him by the biceps and haul him to the door. No one cares, because Ivan's hand is drifting down to Hilary's cunt, he's playing with her and stroking her and his eyes are so restless, glittering, a hunter's; he finds someone worthwhile and

the snap of his fingers, the crisp beckoning of index and middle. There's another man kneeling between Hilary's legs, kneeling like a supplicant while he rolls a condom on, there's another cock sliding into her and

it's Ivan's name on her lips again.

So it goes. Strange, but the anger is gone now. Ivan snarled at John for calling her a whore, for telling her to take it; he told Max to make her moan like a threat. But he doesn't hate what Hilary's doing anymore. He doesn't hate that she's naked, she's put herself on display, she's opened her legs and she's getting fucked by someone else, a string of someone elses. It doesn't seem to matter. He couldn't explain it if he tried,

so he doesn't try. He holds her, and she keeps moaning for him, it's always his name, she's always with him, there are a hundred faceless men in this room but it's always him.

Somewhere in there, Max finally gets up the nerve to get on his knees for Hilary. He's the only man to put his hands on Hilary's waist as he fucks her, the only one who thinks to or dares to try, and Ivan's eyes flash when he touches her

but he allows it, just this once. Later, when Max is done, sprawling on the couch exhausted with his head back and his eyes still fixed on Hilary and the two men on her then, one between her legs, the other reaching past him to caress her breasts, her belly, reaching down to play with her clit while Ivan holds her from behind the way he's held her this entire time, makes her come

again

while Ivan bites at her neck, kisses her shoulder, tells her to shhh, you can take it, you can handle it, shushes her while she's arching in his arms and falling apart, making the man inside her fall apart with her. Then somewhere in there there's a man who wants to put his mouth on her, and Ivan's hands are on Hilary's thighs, holding her open while a stranger eats her out, and afterward he wants her to return the favor, starts to stand up on the table and undo his belt, but

no, Ivan says, that's not for you.

Then there's a girl who kisses Hilary's neck and breasts, kisses her while she slides her fingers into her, rubs her clit for her; some jackass loses his mind and starts hollering in the background, goes on about how fucking hot that is, yeah, how about some cock in the two of you, you'd like that wouldn't you, you could take turns, and

he gets tossed out,

and

the last man. Hilary's last lover tonight is on his knees like all the rest and coupling with her, fucking her hard, and she's so far gone now that she's shaking in Ivan's arms, her wet is soaking through his pants where she rests against him, she's coming again and it goes through her like electricity, too much to bear, she's sobbing against his chest and twisting and something about that is different this time, is not arching and wanting but overcome, is self-protective. When she comes down from her orgasm, this last lover of hers is just hitting his stride; is grunting under his breath and plowing into her and doesn't give a fuck that she's done, she's had it; he's waited all night for this.

So he's upset, he's angry and shouting when Ivan puts his hand square on his chest and shoves him back, sends him sprawling. What the fuck! he yells, and Ivan says:

"You're done."

and the man on the ground is picking himself up, still yelling, pointing at Hilary, saying look at her, man, she wants it, she wants more, and Ivan says it again:

"You're done."

There's a note in his voice that wasn't there before. Not even when he promised to toss John over the terrace wall. It shuts Hilary's last lover up, makes him start zipping up sullenly. And Ivan very gently unhooks Hilary's legs from over his knees, closes her thighs, turns her sideways across his lap. He's still aroused, hard against her body. That doesn't seem to matter, either. He takes a moment to zip himself away.

This time, when he lifts Hilary, the show is over. He doesn't bid his guests a goodnight; he doesn't suggest that they stay or go. Frankly, he doesn't care. He takes Hilary away, up the stairs and out of sight. Downstairs the party goes on, but it's starting to wind down. Guests are leaving, off to find their own illicit pleasures, off to self-flagellate for what they've witnessed; one or the other.

Upstairs, Ivan takes Hilary into his room. Closes the door behind them, and sets her carefully down. He reaches to slip the mask off her face, and his hands are so gentle now. Then he takes his own mask off, tossing both aside, the red and the white.

He puts his hands on her face then. He kisses her, slow and soft, his thumbs stroking delicately over her cheekbones.

The last time Hilary showed any agency, took any control, was when she tugged her head away from Ivan because he tried to ask her what she wanted. It's hard to even tell how she feels about this, if she's reacting to the way he protects her and exposes her all at once, if she feels anything while being -- let's be frank -- used like this other than primitive, base reactions to stimuli. The party has completely devolved into an orgy, all centered on Ivan and his whore and the men and women he chooses to allow to be with her.

She has to be a whore. They don't try to understand why Ivan is doing this beyond that, but that is the only explanation. They never assign her anything but that role, that concept. No one in the room would be willing to do what she is doing, unless they were professionals, unless they were being paid extravagantly. She is from another world, and they don't understand it. She is that whore that Ivan hired for his 2011 Halloween party, and god damn, no one will ever forget it.

John fucks her and is literally dragged out, barely over his orgasm before he is reminded of how worthless he is. No one after him thinks for a second that they mean anything. They use her or they don't but they can't forget John's mistake. One after the other, sometimes two at once playing with various parts of her bodies, yet all the while it's Ivan whispering in her ear, holding her, kissing her face and her brow and telling her in a voice so tender that no one can hear it that he's there. He has her. She can take it.

The party falls apart, and Ivan isn't telling his staff to kick people out anymore, and there are so many people here who are fucking or right on the verge of it that his staff couldn't kick them all out if they tried. This is no longer a spectacle and a fascination but a new world they've entered, a reality that will feel like a dream or a nightmare when they wake up tomorrow. Hilary calls out to his name, whimpering, crying, bucking her hips, but Ivan is so close to her. He can feel her, he knows the difference between a cry of pleasure and a cry of pain and he knows that neither of them necessarily mean stop. She trusts him so utterly that most of the time her eyes are closed.

She screams when that man eats her out. She stares at him when he stands up, staring at his hands as he's unzipping, but Ivan reaches past her and stiffarms this one away, too, snarls no, and she nuzzles his jawline, takes a moment to breathe. The girl is the only one she kisses, this woman in a black mask with pin-straight blonde hair, wearing black-on-white pinstripes. Hilary kisses her as though she's Ivan, except not, but she stops the kiss, pulling her face away from the blonde, long before Ivan intervenes or that jackass starts screaming. Even with this woman, she calls for Ivan when she comes, swearing in French,

and this woman seems to understand, purring it back to her, telling Ivan in a murmur as she works her hand between Hilary's legs,

she says she's going to fucking die, she loves you so much.

And then the last man. Her cunt is red and swollen, as are her nipples, and Hilary is trembling. She's crying, crying even as she comes, trying to find words but none of them come, not in any of her three and a half languages, the way she's saying his name is Ivan, Ivan, Ivan

like it's dark and she's lost and can't find him

and that's when he feels her thighs trying to move together, even though this guy is still between them, fucking away, grunting, knowing better than to talk dirty to her. Ivan shoves him back and everyone who remembers it will say as hard as he could but it's not even close, it's nothing as bad as what Ivan could do, it's fucking merciful compared to what he could do. Hilary instantly is closing her legs, turning on Ivan's lap toward his chest, her arms limp but trying to hold him, even as the man is saying look at her

she wants more

when several other people know better, just to look at her, and they don't even know her but they know she doesn't. She's done. And they hear that edge in Ivan's voice and know that he's going to kill someone. Instinct screams up their spines and lights up their viscera, shrieks at those primitive, prey-brained minds that he is going to fucking kill someone

if they touch her again.

Ivan doesn't have to move Hilary. She's already wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face to his chest. All he must do is put his own cock away, slip his arms under her body, and hold her close when he rises to his feet. When he cuts through the immediate circle of the orgy, a maid is there, quickly and wordlessly draping one of his lighter robes over Hilary. He didn't ask for this. But Hilary is naked, and trembling, and her hair is wet with sweat and her body is red from sex and the maid does not seem to do this for Ivan's sake, to escape his wrath for the lack of attention.

The party goes on. Music flares and swells back up but it's exit music in a way; the crowd is thinner. The people that stay know that lingering too long is only pathetic, that to keep this feeling they have alive they must leave. So they begin to drift out into --

No one give a fuck what they do. The part where they matter is over.

Upstairs, he carries her past guests who hang out on the mezzanine and in the hallway and to his own room, a locked door with one of the Russians standing nearby. It's dark inside, the shades closed, but he can see just fine. He can smell Hilary, and he can smell everything done with her tonight, everyone who touched her, left a mark on her, fucked her. Hilary is still shaking, still crying, but she isn't sobbing. There's a difference, somehow, it feels strange and frightening but all right somehow. When he lays her down and slips the mask off she has her eyes closed, clutches at the robe over her and the blankets underneath her and he kisses her but she doesn't kiss him back,

only because she can't.

"I want a bath," she is gasping, shaking as though chilled from a fever, "I want a bath. I want a bath. Ivan, I need y-- I need it. I need you. I need you to clean me. I need ...it."

She does not have the words for what she is really asking for. It will be okay though; Ivan knows. The very first time they were together, he knew what to do afterward. He just knew.

[various parts of her BODY. singular. she only has one!]

[gah! no one GIVES a fuck what they do]

"I know," he's saying, even before the word tumble feverish and stumbling from her lips. "Shh. Shh, I know."

And he does know. Even before he kissed her, even before he set her down in his room, even before he carried her from that stone table all the way up the stairs, all the way down the upstairs gallery where his guests were still lingering, loitering, staring as he went past, he knew. He knew he was going to carry her up here, and wash her, and bathe her, and cleanse her the way he does. He knew he wanted to, and she would want it, and that it was absolutely necessary.

He's always known. Somehow - knowing nothing else about this dark world he stepped into with her - he knew this.

"You never have to ask me for it," he whispers, though he's not sure she'll even remember this conversation come morning. He's not sure she'll remember it even five minutes from now. "I know."

The bathroom is dark when he leads her into it. He turns on only one light - a single halogen spotlight over the vast tub, set on the lowest level of the dimmer. Water blasts into the tub, and steam begins to rise. While it fills, Ivan comes back to Hilary, and he starts to reach for the robe his maid laid over her

but then he stops. He undresses himself, first. The shoes, the waistcoat, the tie, the shirt, the slacks; the socks, the underwear. His wristwatch. All of it left on the floor or beside the sink, and when he's naked he eases the robe from her shoulders, lets it fall.

He can smell everything, everyone. He can smell her. He pulls her into his arms for a moment, hard against his chest, which rises against hers as he inhales. Exhales. Releasing her, he helps her into the tub, climbs in after her.

It's an loose echo of their positioning downstairs. He's behind her, but this time his knees are on either side of hers. He keeps her inside the borders of his body, protected, reaching to the side to turn off the faucet, lather his hands. With infinite patience and a heartbreaking tenderness, he begins to wash her,

washes her hair, washes her neck and her back and her breasts, her belly, washes her arms down to her fingertips, her legs down to her toes. Washes her between her legs and in the cleft of her ass, behind the ears, and - very delicately - her face, the corners of her eyes, the tracks where sweat and tears had run. Everywhere, absolutely everywhere. When he's done, he rinses her clean, rinses the soap away, rubs the soreness from her neck and her back, her thighs, lets the water run out, holds her so she won't be cold until the tub refills with clear, hot water.

Then, finally, they rest. He draws her back against him, tilts her head back against his shoulder. Holds her there, in the dimness and the water - a strange, amorphous state, like a world between worlds, before birth, before existence. They don't speak. They just

float for a while.

Her eyes find him in the dark, somehow. She sniffs, nodding to his words, but she doesn't know there's such a thing as tomorrow. She believes him utterly, trusts every word from his mouth. He will always wash her after, take care of her. She never has to ask. But when he rises and tries to help her up she sobs again, she can't walk, or doesn't want to, or doesn't remember how. She can't stand on her heels anymore, so he lets her down and he takes them off, one after the other, strips the gloves from her arms, and lifts her up into his arms again, rubbing her back. When they get to the bathroom she curls up on the bathmat, no longer crying but lying on her side, covered in his robe, while the water fills up behind her.

As Ivan disrobes, Hilary doesn't watch him. She's just trying to come back into her own flesh. The mat tickles. The floor is cold. These things remind her that the world is real, and good, and it's okay. Her body is okay. Everything is okay. She begins to calm, breathing more normally, and this time when he helps her up so that they can step into the tub, she is able to stand. Ivan slips the robe off and holds her, and she tucks against his chest, her hips and her thighs feeling wobbly, unsteady. Her legs were parted and spread open so long it's as though her body has forgotten how to stand normally.

He heard men murmuring about that downstairs. Making women walk funny. Something like that. Hilary did, too, and she thinks about it, then lets that thought go, sniffing again, as Ivan unwinds from her a bit and helps her into the water.

It's very hot. And she moans when they sink down into it, trembling as the heat attacks the chill over her skin. Ivan uses a large sponge, squeezes water over her hair. He warns her every time to close her eyes. His fingertips rub gently over her scalp as he washes her hair, and helps her slide down to rinse it out, leaving suds in the water. Helps her back up, moving and arranging her just as he did down on the stone table, only his hands are so soft now, so tender. The music outside is dying down. It's hard to hear anything, but the bass reverbates through the entire penthouse, lingering like so many of his guests.

His soap has a great lather, rich and thick and creamy. He covers her in it til the line of the water, then has her lift her legs and he washes those, too, washes between her toes. Hilary gets up on her knees and whimpers suddenly, which is when he draws her up a bit and sees the scrapes from the rough-hewn stone where she was kneeling, naked, all the time he fucked her. Her skin isn't bleeding but it's rubbed red and raw, and she tries to cover them with her palms but no, no,

it's okay.

Ivan has her stand. Washes her torso and her body and kneels, washing her ass and -- very tenderly, very slowly, very carefully, very thoroughly -- between her legs. When she sinks back into the water, holding his hands, he picks up a cloth and tells her to close her eyes, and he washes her face. All the tears go away, and the makeup, gently wiped from her eyelids and eyelashes, her mouth, her skin. The water is filthy and they let it drain, Hilary curling against him to stay warm as it does. He rinses her with the showerhead, washes it all down the drain, every last speck of grime and dirty sud.

They stay where they are, curled together, as it refills.

And she begins to relax. She was so limp, so open, for so long downstairs. Then she tensed up suddenly, withdrew, shaken. Now she calms again, finally, laying against him in the water. Her breathing is as steady as if she were asleep.

"My love," she whispers, after a long time. Like a name.

In the darkness, Ivan is calm now. They both are. She was so limp, so open, for so long, and the whole time he was alert and tense and savage. She trusted him so utterly. He could feel it, and that made him all the more protective. It was a strange act of love, all of that; an act of love and caring, somehow, to open her up to a half-dozen strangers, let them fuck her, let them touch her, let them make her come and come until she couldn't take it anymore,

but never, ever let them hurt her.

He's beginning to realize that this is how it works. Dominance has nothing to do with being served. Submission is not the same thing as servitude or slavery. His role is that of the caregiver and the protector. She is the beloved, the precious, the protected.

And he was so vigilant all night. So careful, and vicious, all but baring his teeth at anyone who stepped so much as a millimeter over some invisible line. It was exhausting, and exhilarating, and now that it's over

now that she's shuddered through the tension of being overwhelmed, overcome, now that she's relaxing again after his ministrations, which were for him a kind of therapy, too, a sort of ritual and catharsis, a sort of worship,

they are both calm, and silent, and warm, and still. Ivan no longer feels tired. His mind feels clear and crisp. His eyes are open, watching the dark for anything that might disrupt them, hurt her.

She names him, there in the dark. And he stirs, turning his head to kiss her face. He thinks of the woman downstairs, who wore a black mask filigreed with white gold, whose eyes were wild blue as she got Hilary off, wild blue as she laughed for the pure dark joy of it, wild blue and closing as she kissed Hilary, wild blue as she looked past Hilary to tell Ivan what Hilary said;

he thinks of what Hilary said and he aches, he loves her so much he could die.

"I'm here," he whispers. Because it's dark, and sometimes she's afraid of the dark, but not when he's with her. Not when she can find him.