New Orleans hums with heat and secrets, the air thick as molasses as rain drums the tin roof of this borrowed mansion. I’m Ivy, 32, a bartender who pours whiskey and charm at a French Quarter dive, but lately, I’m pouring doubt into my life with Caleb. My cotton tank sticks to my skin, damp from the open windows, and my engagement ring feels like a shackle. Five years with Caleb—jazz brunches, his steady carpenter hands fixing our porch—once felt like home, but now it’s a cage. I’m Robert Greene’s Siren, my laugh a lure, my heart restless, and Veda, my old barback turned OnlyFans provocateur, is fanning the flames.
It started six weeks ago at a crawfish boil. Veda, all raven hair and serpent tattoos, pulled me aside, her bourbon breath hot. “You’re fading with Caleb, Ivy,” she hissed. “He’s a good guy, but you’re fire. Monogamy’s a scam—fuck who you want, live raw.” Her words hit like a match, lighting something I’d buried. Caleb, 35, builds furniture with a quiet love I used to crave, but Veda calls it a leash. She’s been sending me links—podcasts, posts about “owning your desire”—and I’m slipping. Last night, I told Caleb I needed “time to breathe.” His hazel eyes—hurt, searching—cut me, but Veda’s voice drowned it out: “You’re a queen, not his keeper.”
Tonight, he’s at a worksite, and I’m alone, sipping rye, the mansion’s oak floors creaking under my pacing. Veda’s text burns my phone: “Meet me at Banshee, 11. Unleash.” I picture Caleb’s empty toolbox by our bed, his unread texts: “Ivy, what’s wrong?” Guilt twists, but Veda’s right—I’m suffocating, aren’t I? I slip into a red dress, low-cut and tight, and head out, rain soaking me as I weave through the Quarter, the city alive with sin and shadow.
Banshee’s a gothic hole, all velvet and candlelight, jazz throbbing like a pulse. Veda’s late, as always. I lean against the bar, whiskey warming my throat, when I feel him—a shiver, like a blade’s kiss. He’s in the corner, all coiled danger and rain-slick leather, his jaw sharp, a scar slashing his brow. Gideon, a ghost from my old life, when I slung drinks for a biker crew in Baton Rouge. He was their enforcer, raw and untamed, fucking me breathless in backrooms until I ran for Caleb’s calm. Now he’s here, his blue eyes—ice-cold, burning—locking on mine, and suspense grips me: why now? Is he hunting me? But my body hums, nipples hard against silk, craving his chaos.
“You’re still trouble, Ivy,” he says, voice a gravelly caress as he closes the gap, rain dripping from his hair. His scent—leather, cedar, storm—hits me, and I’m wet, not just from rain. “How’d you find me?” I ask, defiant, hiding the tremor in my voice. He leans in, lips twitching. “Fire like yours don’t stay hid.” Fear spikes—does he know my old crew, their grudges?—but desire’s louder, my thighs clenching. Veda’s mantra echoes: “Live, Ivy.” I finish my drink, the burn bold. “What do you want?” I murmur, knowing, needing it. His hand grazes my hip, sparking under my dress. “To make you scream.”
The mansion’s a sauna when we crash through the door, rain-soaked and ravenous, the air heavy with jasmine and lust. Gideon’s hands are on me, pinning me to the oak wall, his body hard, dripping, caging me in. His kiss is a storm—lips crushing, tongue invading, tasting rye and rain as he bites my lip, drawing a sting I feel in my core. I’m just as fierce, clawing his leather off, nails raking his shoulders through his wet shirt, feeling muscle tense, a growl rumbling deep. My pussy’s throbbing, slick against my thong, and I’m trembling, not from cold but from the need to be wrecked. “You’re fucking mine,” he snarls, and I nod, desperate, my body his to break.
He yanks my dress down, silk tearing, baring my tits, nipples tight in the humid air. His hands are brutal—rough, greedy—cupping my breasts, squeezing hard, thumbs pinching my peaks until I moan, pain blooming into pleasure. I’m feral, ripping his shirt open, buttons scattering, revealing ink—skulls and thorns curling over his chest, glistening with rain. My nails dig in, carving red lines, blood welling as he hisses, eyes blazing blue fire. He spins me, shoving me against the dining table, wood cool against my hips, and kicks my legs wide, dress hiked to my waist, thong ripped away, leaving me bare, dripping, exposed.
His hand cracks against my ass—sharp, searing—and I cry out, the burn flooding my cunt, arousal slicking my thighs. “You crave it rough,” he growls, spanking me again, harder, my skin blazing as I arch back, begging, “More.” He obliges, three quick slaps, each one stinging, pushing me higher, my moans echoing through the storm. His fingers find my pussy, parting my folds, teasing my clit with slow, cruel circles until I’m panting, hips bucking, desperate. “So fucking wet,” he rasps, three fingers plunging deep, stretching me, pumping fast, curling against that spot that makes my knees shake. I’m loud, shameless, my wetness dripping down his hand, pooling on the floor as he fucks me with his fingers, relentless, my body trembling on the edge.
I’m not passive—I twist, shoving him back, my hands tearing his belt free, leather snapping as I rip his jeans down. His cock’s a beast—thick, veined, curving up, precum beading like a dare. I grip him, stroking tight, slow, twisting at the head, feeling him pulse, his groan a rumble that makes my pussy clench. “Fuck me,” I snarl, and he laughs, dark and approving, grabbing my hair, yanking hard to tilt my head back. His teeth graze my throat, biting, marking, and I moan, pleasure-pain sparking through me. He spanks me again, the sting syncing with my pulse, and I’m liquid, begging, “Now, Gideon.”
He lifts me onto the table, my legs wrapping his waist, rain streaming through a cracked window, drenching us, water slicking my tits, rolling over my nipples as they scrape his chest. His cock teases my entrance, rubbing through my wetness, nudging my clit until I’m whimpering, clawing his arms. “Beg,” he growls, and I do, voice raw, “Please—fuck me hard.” He thrusts—one savage stroke, filling me so deep I scream, his girth splitting me open, a burn that’s pure ecstasy. He’s merciless, pounding me, the table creaking, my body jolting with each brutal drive. Water drips from his hair, mixing with sweat, slicking our skin as he fucks me like he owns me.
His hand grips my throat, squeezing just enough to make my head spin, grounding me in the chaos. My tits bounce, raw against his chest, and he leans down, sucking a nipple, teeth grazing, biting hard until I’m writhing, pleasure coiling tight. He spanks my thigh—sharp, sudden—and I moan, the sting pushing me closer to the edge. “Take it all,” he snarls, angling deeper, his cock dragging against my walls, hitting that spot that makes stars explode. My pussy clenches, greedy, and he feels it, growling, “You’re mine.” His fingers find my clit, rubbing rough, fast, and I’m trembling, my moans a desperate chant, the storm outside roaring with us.
He pulls out, flipping me to bend me over the table, my hands braced, ass up, still shaking from the near-release. His hand cracks against my ass—once, twice, three times, each hit harder, my skin blazing, arousal dripping down my legs. “Spread,” he orders, and I do, legs wide, pussy throbbing, exposed. He thrusts back in, deeper, harder, his balls slapping my clit, reigniting the fire. His hand fists my hair, pulling tight, forcing my spine to arch, and he spanks me again, the burn a pulse that syncs with his cock. “Come for me,” he growls, his thumb circling my clit, rough and relentless, and I shatter—my orgasm a tidal wave, a scream ripping free, my cunt spasming, milking him as I convulse, gushing, soaking the table, the floor, his thighs.
He’s not done. He fucks me through it, thrusts brutal, his fingers digging into my hips, bruising, marking. His teeth find my shoulder, biting hard, pain blooming into ecstasy, and I’m climbing again, my body his to command. He spanks my other cheek, sharp and sudden, and I moan, another orgasm building, my pussy clenching so tight he groans, losing control. “Again,” he rasps, his cock hitting that spot, relentless, his thumb rubbing my clit, and I come again—a raw cry, my body shaking, pleasure crashing through me, my wetness flooding, dripping with rain.
He pulls out, spinning me to my knees, the floor slick with water, my thighs trembling. “Open,” he growls, fisting his cock, and I do, mouth wide, tongue out, eyes locked on his. He comes—hot ropes painting my lips, my tongue, splashing my chin, my tits, dripping down my skin as I swallow, his groan primal, possessive, echoing through the mansion. I’m greedy, licking him clean, sucking his tip, feeling him shudder, my hands stroking his thighs, nails grazing, claiming him back.
We collapse, drenched, tangled on the floor, rain pooling around us, my body marked—red welts, bite marks, his cum slick on my skin. His hand gentles, tracing my jaw, but his eyes—those blue storms—hold a shadow, a flicker of recognition that chills me. “You can’t outrun it, Ivy,” he says, voice low, and fear spikes, cutting through the haze. Is he tied to Baton Rouge? My old debts? I pull away, shaky, dress in tatters, his scent on me, his taste in my mouth. “Don’t come back,” I whisper, but his gaze lingers, heavy with truths I’m not ready to face. I stumble into the storm, New Orleans swallowing me, Gideon a fire I’ll chase, even if it burns me to ash.