The seventieth floor had been surrendered to the annual "Victory" year-end gala, black and molten gold everywhere, lights dimmed so low the Strip's neon bled through the glass like liquid fire. Oud spread thick in the air, mixing with the cold bite of vintage champagne and the metallic tang of too much money concentrated in one room.
Out there, hundreds of predators circled: Saudi princes in bespoke tuxes that cost more than most people's houses, Russian oligarch daughters in backless gowns that revealed spine tattoos in Cyrillic, Silicon Valley crypto bros pretending their rented Tom Ford made them royalty, even a low-key European duke who'd landed his Gulfstream that morning just to drink Lucifer's Macallan. The firm's own sharks prowled in midnight-black suits; senior strategists with smiles like switchblades, junior analysts already drunk on free whisky, interns clutching sparkling water like life rafts. Trophy wives, sugar babies, and ambitious mistresses dripped diamonds that were very much real, throats and wrists flashing under the amber sconces.
And me, floating executive support in a backless gold silk gown that cost more than my tuition back home. My official job tonight: keep the high-rollers' glasses full, whisper Urdu and Arabic corrections when the hired interpreters lagged, smile for photographs while secretly texting Lucifer last-minute seating changes or halal substitutions on my work phone. All night I glided through the crowd with a phone and a smile, choker cool against my throat, feeling every pair of eyes cataloguing exactly whose collar I wore.
That is until i got message. 🖤
At 11:45, the executive bathroom on the seventieth floor smelled like money and sin: chilled marble, faint traces of Creed Aventus, and the wet heat rolling off my own skin.
I was on my knees again. Just a few months after I'd walked into Lucifer HardPound's office with tears in my eyes and a sabotaged résumé, here I was: silk dress rucked to my waist, black lace soaked through, mouth stretched wide around the thickest cock I'd ever tried to swallow; thicker than my own wrist, veins like desert lightning under velvet skin. That intoxicating smell.
The holiday party thumped beyond the locked door: bad remixes, champagne laughter, the clink of deals being sealed. None of it mattered. All that existed was the heavy pulse against my tongue, the iron grip of his fingers in my hair, and the low, amused growl above me.
I pushed deeper, desperate to prove I'd learned something in six months of overtime. My throat fluttered, eyes watered, jaw burned.
"Too thiwk~!"
The blunt head battered the back of my mouth and I gagged hard; wet, filthy, uncontrollable. Spit spilled over my chin, dripping onto the marble between his polished shoes.
I pulled off with a broken gasp, mascara rivers carving black paths down my cheeks. "I—I'm sorry, Daddy—"
Lucifer's chuckle was dark velvet dragged over steel. "That's it?" He thumbed a tear from my cheek, smeared it across my swollen bottom lip like gloss. "Quite sad, pet. Six months and you still can't take all of me."
Shame and heat twisted low in my belly. I lifted my head, gazing up at the wall of a man, and the word bloomed in my chest like sin: wonderful. I licked the mess from my lips; spit and pre-cum, a glossy shame I licked clean instinctively; and whispered, raw and trembling, "I'll do better." The words flowed naturally now, like I'd been saying them every day of my life. "Please."
He didn't answer with words. He simply tightened his grip and fed himself back into my mouth, slow and merciless, letting me feel every inch stretching my lips, sliding over my tongue, nudging the back of my throat until my eyes rolled and my lungs screamed. I gagged again, harder, tears streaming, but he held me there, just long enough for the panic to spark and die into surrender. When he finally let me breathe, strings of saliva stretched from my swollen lips to his glistening crown.
"Look at you," he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through my bones. "Short on breath, shaking knees, and still begging for more. Good girl."
The praise hit like a drug. My clit throbbed so violently I clenched around nothing, a tiny, humiliating orgasm rippling through me just from the taste of him and the weight of his approval. I whimpered around his cock, thighs slicker than ever.
He pulled out slowly, letting me feel the loss, then hauled me up by the hair; gentle enough the party wouldn't notice, firm enough my scalp sang; and spun me toward the closed toilet lid.
"Climb on. Up. Show me what that résumé promised."
I obeyed instantly, knees spreading wide on cool porcelain, palms braced on the tank, back arched like an offering. The mirror threw my reflection back at me: hair wild, lips bruised and glossy, titanium choker glinting at my throat; the one he'd locked on the day I sold my ambition for his money. Behind me, Lucifer freed himself fully, heavy cock slick with my spit, resting hot and threatening against the small of my back while he dragged my soaked lace aside with one lazy finger.
The bass from the party bled through the walls like a second heartbeat.
He pressed forward; just the blunt head stretching my entrance, not entering, just teasing, owning. I could feel how drenched I was, how easily he'd slide in, how one thrust would split me open right here with half the company twenty feet away.
"Lucifer—" My voice cracked, panic and hunger braided tight. "They're right outside—"
"Shhh~" he whispered against my ear, teeth grazing the shell, one large hand splayed possessively over my lower belly. "Or I'll let them hear exactly how well I've trained you."
His hips rolled, slow and deliberate, the fat crown dragging through my folds, coating himself in me, nudging my clit, then sliding back to rest right at my entrance again. Every tiny motion sent sparks up my spine. My hips rolled back on instinct, chasing the burn, trying to take him deeper.
He held me there; pinned, trembling, dripping; and let the silence stretch until I was sobbing quietly, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain tank, tears dripping onto the closed lid.
This is wrong. So wrong. But my body didn't care about prayers anymore. It only cared about him.
I was terrified.
I was aching.
I was his.
And he still hadn't moved an inch inside me.
The night had barely started.