Submitted To My Step-Brother

Ara shouldn't have been present, shouldn't have permitted herself to participate in anything so sordid. However, she kept her stride light and confident, venturing into a room bustling with Boston's rich and influential, who were in varying stages of disrobing. Faces were hidden behind masks of all shapes and sizes, preserving anonymity. Degrading s****l acts were taking place openly around her, with some attendees reaching out to touch her bare arms, aiming to draw her into their lascivious activities. Ignoring these advances, Ara searched for her friend, though she wasn't certain who Lucielle might be currently involved with and particularly wasn't eager to witness her best friend in a s****l act with some individual, regardless of their gender. Lucielle, true to her nature, was non-discriminatory in her choices. Lucielle Hankins had convinced her to join this party, assuring her that it was completely anonymous and that no one would recognize her. Lucielle had also pointed out that she needed to relax after graduation and truly let go, to which Ara had agreed, although she hadn't imagined a lascivious dungeon. Ara was not overly concerned about being recognized, as she had only just returned to Boston after four wonderful years at college and an additional year at boarding school. Yet, at the age of twenty-two, with a creative writing degree in hand, her stepfather had demanded her return after a rather harsh phone call. Given that he and his family had connections with the Irish underworld, Ara had been almost powerless to refuse him. She almost asked about John but decided against it. Considering her complicated history with her stepbrother, she knew it was better to keep him out of her thoughts unless absolutely necessary. After five years of minimal contact, she was more than ready to maintain that distance. Ara first met John after her mother announced her engagement when Ara was fifteen and John was a robustly handsome twenty-two-year-old. She remembered being infatuated with him from the start, continually shadowing him around the mansion during his visits until one ill-fated day when she was seventeen that had drastically changed her life. She had overstepped, provoked him too much, even though she knew better than to incite his anger, yet she did it with a smile on her face. The memory of blood on her hands from that day was still vivid in her mind. The scent of it lingered. Choosing to no longer dwell on that day, Ara maneuvered around a couple engaged in an intimate act on the floor. The moans and the sounds of skin against skin stirred a small surge of desire within her. The sight of such raw, unfiltered s****l acts had an erotic and enticing appeal that caused her face to heat beneath her mask, her breaths becoming more rapid. She toyed with the idea of finding a random stranger to engage with. The thought sent a small thrill through her, but she knew it would be challenging to step so far out of her comfort zone to solicit a stranger. She wondered how one went about making such a proposition, as she hadn't attempted anything of the sort in years. Ara didn't consider herself to be so unrestrained, doubting she possessed the confidence for such a primal act. She entered another room, this one dimmer than the previous one. The couches were wide and without backs, undoubtedly designed to accommodate multiple partners. A few men were sprawled on the sectional and high-end loveseats, watching a woman on a small stage straddle a man. Both were nude, the man groaning as she moved rhythmically on him. Ara assumed the woman would have been making similar sounds if her mouth had not been occupied by another man. The scene caused a tightening sensation in her chest and a pooling desire in her lower abdomen. A man dressed in a suit noticed her at the door. He stood up and walked towards her, his silver mask glinting in the low light. "Lost your way, darling? Or perhaps you know exactly who you were hoping to entertain tonight?" The man spoke in a thick accent, not unusual in city, but the tattoos on his hands and neck seemed incongruous for such an event. "I'm sorry, I was looking for-" "I know exactly who you were looking for, and let me assure you the boss isn't interested in desperate women, no matter how appealing you look in that silky little number." He looked her up and down, biting his lip appreciatively as he took in her curves. Could this man possibly entertain the idea that he stood a chance with her? Regardless of her strained relationship with John, she was confident that she was considered off-limits to those who moved in his circles. And it was undeniable that anyone who was at this event tonight was indeed part of that circle, as were all of the elites. Maybe, in retrospect, attending this party was an error in judgment. Ara was on the verge of suppressing her initial response, all in the interest of not provoking this newfound 'acquaintance'. But, being a woman with a quick temper, she found it more natural to speak her mind impulsively rather than to maintain calm. "There appears to be some confusion here. I can confidently say that there's not a single person in this room who is worth any of my time, and that includes both you and your boss." He found this amusing, his laughter echoing above the carnal cries emanating from the stage. "Did you all hear that, gentlemen? It seems our little temptress considers herself superior to us." Every gaze in the room turned to her, including those of the performers on the stage. Ara stepped back hesitantly, only to square her shoulders a moment later. She had no intention of letting anyone in this room intimidate her. After all, she bore the Zachary name, even if not by blood. "Floyd, bring her here." A rich, Irish voice commanded from a loveseat that resembled a throne. Ara turned her gaze in his direction, straining to make out the figure seated closest to the stage in the dim light. His voice had a ring of familiarity to it, but she was sure she would have remembered an accent that was as deeply sensual and unmistakably Irish. The man she believed to be Floyd seized her arm, tugging her roughly towards the shadowy figure with the compelling voice. She feigned a struggle, not being accustomed to fending off undesirable advances. Usually, she had a security detail for protection, men who were trained to ensure that she was not subjected to any form of degradation, except perhaps from their boss, John. No, she decided, she wouldn't dwell on him or the events of the distant past at this moment. "Remove your filthy hands off me," she demanded, her tone filled with indignation. But before she could react, she was thrown to the ground. Her knees hit the floor hard, and her chest slammed into the loveseat. She hissed in pain as her knees throbbed. The acute discomfort likely delayed her realization that she was at the feet of the mysterious man, his robust, muscular legs on either side of her. He sat back in his seat with the air of a monarch, a cigar hanging from one hand while he observed her from behind a mask that concealed most of his face, leaving only his lips and jaw visible. What she could see of his face was covered in dark brown stubble, and his piercing green eyes stared at her with such intensity that her breath hitched in her throat. His eyes seemed eerily familiar...