Page 6 of Mister St. James

In the dark, the night plays back in sequence: the crowd, the spotlight, the roar of approval. The man with the blackout mask, the red silk ropes, the way his gaze made the rest of the club disappear. I imagine what it would be like to approach him, to kneel, to surrender the last scrap of control. I picture his hands, the way they’d feel, rough, strong, unyielding, tying me up, binding me to the present moment, shutting out every thought but the one he put there.

Then my mind flips, without warning, to Aiden St. James. Not the boss version, not the arbiter of precision and composure, but the man I imagine he becomes when the office lights go off. I think about his hands, the veins under the skin, the grip that could break me or put me back together. I see him in the club, in the mask, in the dark, running the rope across my body, through my thighs, over my mouth.

I can’t help it. My hand slides down my stomach, circles my clit in slow, practiced movements. The first touch is an electric jolt, like the moment before a show, like every possible future held in suspension. I let my legs fall open, my head thrown back against the pillow. I fuck myself with two fingers, imagining first one man, then the other, then both together, their hands everywhere, their eyes never leaving mine.

I don’t come quietly. I never have. My moans are soft but insistent, the rhythm matching the pulse I can’t get out of my head. When the orgasm hits, it’s full-body, a spasm that arches my back and curls my toes. I ride it out, squeezing my thighs around my hand, grinding until the pleasure tips over into something almost painful.

I lie there, panting, sweat cooling on my skin. The city lights bleed in through the blinds, painting stripes across the room. For a moment, I am empty. Then the hunger returns, slow and sure.

I roll onto my side, hair plastered to my face, the sheets twisted around my waist. I think of the man with the ropes. I think of my boss, the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking. I think about how, when the mask is off, I am still just me.

But maybe that’s the point.

I close my eyes and dream of hands, firm, expert, unforgiving, shaping me into the person I want to become.

Tomorrow, I’ll put on the other mask. But for tonight, I am content to want.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Chapter four

The Hunt

Aiden

The air outside the club is soupy with city trash and the distant tang of wet asphalt. By the time I reach the alley behind the Garnier Opera House, my shirt sticks to my back, and I am already cataloging the variables: ambient temperature, visibility, number of eyes that might plausibly clock me from the windows above. There are three, by my count, but only one with a line of sight to the club’s entry. He’s new. Either security, or someone’s curiosity getting the best of them. I don’t care, but I take a moment to memorize the rhythm of his silhouette, just in case.

The door itself is nothing. Unlabeled, battered, the kind of metal you see on the back of chain restaurants or psychiatric intake units. The only tell is a black enamel inlay at hip-level, perfectly circular, obsidian as advertised. I nudge it with my token, and the magnetic lock hums recognition before the door swings open.

Inside, the corridor feels like an X-ray: everything stripped to bone and wire, each bulb sunk in its own little cage of shadow. The light changes here, colder, clinical, a sudden swerve from the humid summer outside. I let the door close behind me and pause, counting the seconds until my eyes adjust. At three-point-two seconds, the red bulbs flicker to life down the length of the hall, and I know the Velvet Stag is running on schedule.

I strip off my suit jacket, folding it precise along the lapels before tucking it into the cubby by the security desk. My hands are steady, every motion deliberate, because here, more than anywhere, the illusion of composure is everything. I take out the mask. Polished carbon, featherweight, the bridge padded with a thin layer of kid leather. I run a thumb over the eyeholes, feeling the flex and give. My contacts are in tonight so the mask slides on with ease, the elastic sinking into the notches behind my ears.

The real change is the rope. Six millimeters, Japanese jute, dyed crimson. I uncoil it from the carry case and drape it around my neck in a loose double-loop. Not as a lanyard, never that, but as a collar, a warning, a question: what do you want from me tonight? The rope is my only affectation. For the regulars, it’s as good as a name.

My shoes are quiet on the plush carpet. Even the acoustics here are curated, every surface designed to hush and diffuse. I cross the threshold into the main gallery, and the real world cuts out.

This is what I love about the Velvet Stag. The perimeter is absolute. Inside, the rules are simple and non-negotiable. No names. No contact without consent. No phones, cameras, or digital memory. If you’re caught violating, you’re erased. It’s the kind of protocol that draws people like me, executives, politicians, celebrities, the perpetually unsatisfied. The secretly depraved. People who want, more than anything, to feel the gravity of consequence slide off for a night.

The masks here are a taxonomy all their own. Tonight, I count: eight venetian, six feline, four geometric abstracts, one grotesque babydoll. A few of the regulars nod to me as I pass, but I don’t break stride. The only acknowledgment I give is the rope. It’s a language, if you know how to read it.

I settle into a booth at the periphery, back to the wall, eyes on the entry. It’s not paranoia, it’s practice; in my world, the best seat is always the one with the most data. I order a whiskey, no need to specify, they know my preference, and while I wait, I let my gaze run laps around the room.

My pulse is up, but my mind is clinical, dissecting the crowd in packets of visual data. At table twelve, a man in a bone-white mask fingers the stem of his martini as if it’s the neck of a lover. His date, judging by the diamond at her throat and the slant of her legs, a lawyer or lobbyist, leans in, mouth parted, desperate for contact. Booth six is the peacock table, four women, all feathered masks and sequins, laughing with the calculated casualness of women who’ve never had to buy their own drinks. Two of them watch the stage, the others watch the watchers. Even here, the games are nested.

The drink arrives, set down by a server who doesn’t linger. The glass is heavy, the whiskey gold and severe. I take a slow sip, letting the fire burn a clean line through the back of my throat as I scan the room. If she is here tonight, I will find her. I have to find her.

The house lights dim another notch, and a ripple of anticipation passes through the crowd. I allow myself a single breath, deep and punishing, and in that moment I am not Aiden St. James. I am the Weaver, a story told in knots and discipline, a rumor made real by the way people want to believe it.

The urge to control is always with me, but tonight I want something else. I want the unpredictable. I want to see what happens when the system fails, when the pattern breaks, when the red-thread logic of the world unravels at my feet. I want to find Catalina.

And, god help me, I want to see what she’ll do when she realizes I’m here.

I wait for her in the same way I would wait for a critical system update, impatience measured in milliseconds, nerves humming with the possibility of total collapse. The club’s energy tightens as the crowd thickens. The main stage is spotlit, the LEDs cycling in deliberate waves, amber, then red, then a deep, pulsing ultraviolet that stains the air more than it illuminates. I have the same vantage as before, only now I’m three whiskeys in and the glass is barely sweating in my hand.

At 10:05, precisely on schedule, the MC mounts the stage. They lift a wireless mic, the gesture slicing clean through the thrum of background noise, and address the room in a tone that’s half ringmaster, half priest. “Tonight, the Scarlet Muse offers us a taste of divinity in exchange for your devotion. For those in the wings, please, hold your breath and get ready for a feast for the eyes.”

There is a pause, a thud of anticipation. My heart keeps time. The MC slips away, and the platform is briefly empty, a blank canvas for whatever comes next.