Page 4 of The Darkest Hour
Even more groaned and shifted in their seats, while others licked their lips, utterly captivated by the erotic display.
It was a collective yearning that pulsed in time with the sultry jazz notes.
We were all seekers of the extraordinary, drawn to the edge of taboo.
I checked Paris and could see the discomfort as well as arousal in his eyes as he watched the woman in the tank.
Paris was the sort of man who held back all his primal urges, locking them away within his soul. He represented the archetype of a man confined by the invisible chains of propriety—ever conscious of the bullshit boundaries set by the world around him. A struggling warrior in a battle between societal expectations and the raw, untamed desires that lay dormant within all men.
Society demanded decorum, control, and adherence to a set of unwritten rules that dictated our behavior.
Yet, within each of us, there was an innate yearning for something more—an instinctual drive to break free from limits and explore the depths of our twisted desires.
Still. . .for a few seconds, I wondered what it was like to live in a state of constant self-denial—a prisoner of one’s own making.
I had long abandoned those restraints, choosing instead to embrace the primal urges that made me feel truly alive.
Fuck being civilized.
The waitress brought over Paris’s pink drink, set it down in front of him, and then walked away.
A smirk played on my lips. “You should consider taking a break from business and remain here for a few days.”
“And what next? Watch a rhinoceros stick a horn in a woman’s ass?” Paris waved me away. “I think not.”
“Are you not turned on?”
“Of course I am.” Disgust laced his voice. “This is why I hate places like this. They force men to like things they would never enjoy in normal settings.”
“No, my friend. Most men would love this. Octopuses have arms that look like massive cocks. And those cock-like arms are all entangled among a sexy, naked woman.”
Clearly uncomfortable, Paris cleared his throat.
“It is a vision of control and surrender. Dominance and submission.”
“And who is dominant?” Paris huffed. “The octopus or the woman?”
“That is a question I cannot answer. Which makes it even more terrifying and thrilling for the human psyche.”
Paris pointed to the woman. “And what about her? Clearly, the club forced her to do this.”
I chuckled, watching the woman writhe and orgasm among the octopuses. “I only see pleasure on her face.”
“Of course you would.”
I shrugged. “Most women want to fuck the monster.”
Paris shifted slightly, trying to compose himself before reaching into his jacket. “Anyway.”
I eyed him.
“As you requested.” He pulled out a small leather bag and placed it on the table between us. “Inside, you'll find a new passport, an Amex card, finger covers with fake fingerprints, digital contacts, and a few other essentials for someone who needs to start a new life.”
I opened the bag and inspected its contents. Everything was there, just as he had described.
“Impressive.” I dug in my suit pocket and handed him my old passports, credit cards, and the most important item of all—a card with the exact location of Black Rose Society.
B.R.S.