#51
“I wanted a partner. Not a delicate flower, I had to tend every single day.”
Christina waved a dismissive hand.
“Anyway. Forget about him. Let’s just—”
But just as she finished her words, a sharp ding cut through the club’s din.
Her phone, resting on the table, lit up with a notification. Wondering who it was, she picked it up. Then, her face crunched into annoyance, seeing it was a message from her EX. An image was attached.
She opened it, and a picture filled the screen: a man with heavy, perfectly applied makeup—rosy cheeks, sparkling eyeshadow, subtly glossed lips—pouting at the camera.
He was wearing a frilly, lace-trimmed blouse that plunged daringly, showcasing a generous amount of he-vage, enough for most women to swoon. His expression was one of exaggerated cuteness, an almost childlike vulnerability captured for maximum appeal.
The caption beneath read: Hey, baby. Do you miss me? <3
If this were before, Christina would have smiled, perhaps even made a soft, cooing sound, her heart fluttering a little. He just looked so cute, so beautiful, so precious. However, right now, it only made her stomach churn with disgust.
All teasing, but no action. That was the problem. Endless beauty, endless charm, endless emotional displays, but when it came to real intimacy, real passion, he always pulled away, or cried, or needed comforting.
She doesn’t just want a cuddle bear, but one that could scratch her itch!
Fucker! I already told him not to text me again, and he still does. Should I just block him?
Christina snickered, a harsh, humorless sound, and was about to close her phone, to delete the message, blocked him, and erased him from her digital life. But just as her thumb descended, Maya’s quick hands snatched the phone from her grasp.
“Oooh, what’s this?” Maya purred, her eyes alight. Sarah and Chloe immediately leaned in, abandoning their drinks.
The moment they saw the picture, a collective gasp was swiftly followed by a soft, reverent sound.
“Oh, my goddess!” Sarah whispered, her eyes wide with adoration. “He looks so… good!”
“He’s cute~” Chloe murmured, usually so analytical, now sounding utterly captivated.
Maya’s eyes were practically gleaming. “He’s practically glowing! Look at that he-vage! Oh, Chrissy, how could you let this one go? He’s a catch! You’re insane!”
They stared at the image, utterly mesmerized, swooning as if they’d just seen a celebrity.
Christina watched them, a profound sense of weary exasperation washing over her. They didn’t understand. A catch?! Maybe, a sight for sore eyes. However, if they know how annoying it can be to just watch but be unable to touch, it’s a frustration that can be overwhelming.
And besides… beauty? Christina scoffed inwardly. She’s seen someone far more beautiful and charming than that guy. And she’s living with him. Her brother.
And to make things even better?
William is not like that guy. He’s far better. He doesn’t look at me with a disgusted look whenever he sees me prancing around without a shirt, and he won’t even shy away from any intimacy.
Thinking about her brother, a soft, gentle smile appeared on her face.
“Seriously, Chrissy,” Maya lamented, stroking the screen of Christina’s phone almost possessively, “…if you’re going to throw away a beauty like this, then you might as well give him to us. You know, as the old hags says, ‘don’t let one’s own fertile water flow into others’ field.”
Christina rolled her eyes. If they only knew how much of a needy bitch that guy is.
“If you want him, then feel free to have him,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of the usual performative jealousy her friends expected.
The other girls look at her in surprise. Decisive. It seems like Christina really doesn’t want this guy anymore.
They were just teasing her. After all, there’s no way they would try to seduce their friend’s man. They are not that lacking in pride and respect to do that.
However, hearing their friend’s decisive tone, it does seem like this is not just one of their usual arguments.
… Christina’s done with this guy.
I wonder what happened?
All of them thought, knowing that Christina would not be this rash. To dump a guy and completely cut them out of your life, no girl would even think about that. Contrary, they would completely cling to them as if their lives depended on it. After all, it’s such a waste to let a man go. Not to mention, a cute one like this.
Christina and her partner would often fight, having a cold war, but in the end, she would yield, and they would reconcile days later, as if nothing had happened.
And yet…
“I don’t care. As I said, we’re done.”
Christina made a move to snatch her phone back, but Maya, quicker than she looked, dodged the attempt, still staring at the screen with an expression of genuine confusion.
“Come on, tell us. What happened? You never said these things before with such finality. You were always patient with him, Chrissy. Did something happen?” Chloe chimed in, prodding.
The air vibrated with their expectation – a dramatic confession, a scandalous reveal. They were college students, after all, and the pursuit of drama, second only to the pursuit of available men, was a favorite pastime.
Hmm, rather than saying it’s with the man that had the issue… it should be, Christina. To give her this confidence… Sarah thought as she looked at her friend.
Christina stifled a groan. The thought of reliving the last week of carefully managed emotional labor, of soothing anxieties and validating feelings that weren’t even her own, made her head throb.
“Nothing happened,” she said nonchalantly, finally managing to retrieve her phone. Exactly… nothing happened.
“Hey, where are you going?” Maya called out as Christina pushed away from the table.
“Toilet,” she tossed over her shoulder, not bothering to elaborate.
The humidity of the club wrapped around Christina like a damp, aggressive blanket as she pushed away from the table.
The air was a toxic cocktail of cheap cologne, synthetic sweat, spilled liquor, and the sharp, metallic tang of unbridled pheromones. It vibrated with the relentless bass and the low, guttural roar of hundreds of voices, mostly female, all amplified by the sheer volume of bodies.
Above the main dance floor, a projection screen pulsed with abstract neon patterns, occasionally flashing crude, suggestive images of pouty-lipped men, their faces carefully airbrushed to accentuate their wide, vulnerable eyes.
Christina navigated the crowded dance floor with practiced ease, her firm shoulders and athletic build easily parting the smaller, more agile women who were grinding against each other with fervent intensity.
Their outfits, or lack thereof, offered little resistance to her passage. Shimmering scraps of fabric, strategically placed pasties, and even full toplessness were common sights.
The heat, the alcohol, the sheer scarcity of eligible men – it all converged into an almost desperate, primal energy.
Women, sleek and predatory, moved with uninhibited hunger, their gazes sweeping the room, less for a partner to dance with than for a potential conquest.
The music pulsed, demanding release, and everywhere Christina looked, women were seeking cheap, temporary satisfaction. A pair of women in business suits, their expensive fabrics rumpled and unbuttoned, were intensely locked in a kiss against a velvet column, hands aggressively mapping territory under tailored jackets.
One of them, a tall brunette with sharp cheekbones, had her fingers already slipping beneath the waistband of her partner’s slacks, eliciting a muffled gasp that cut through the din like a siren’s call.
Christina averted her eyes, not out of prudishness—modesty had long been sacrificed in this world where desire ran unchecked—but because the sight stirred a familiar ache low in her belly. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly; it was the gnawing reminder of what she had waiting at home, the one man who made all this frenzy feel like a pale imitation. Her brother. Her lover.
She pressed on toward the restrooms, weaving through clusters of bodies that seemed to multiply with every step. The club’s layout was a deliberate labyrinth, designed to maximize friction—literal and figurative. Dim corridors branched off the main floor, leading to semi-private alcoves where deals were struck, both business and carnal.
As a regular clubber, Christina knew the drill. Clubs like this one, dubbed ‘Haven’s Den’ in neon script above the entrance, operated under a loose code enforced by bouncers who were all female, all armed with tasers disguised as jewelry.
Naturally, this club wasn’t just for women. Men also sometimes wandered inside here, entering or working at their own risk, often collared or leashed by their female companions or partners to ward off poachers. And this included the waiters who worked here, their necks or wrists marked with glowing tags that signaled untouchable status.
Anyone who broke the rule and tried to assault men without consent here would face swift punishment—being kicked out and banned for life was the lightest penalty, with rumors of more severe repercussions like public shaming or forced labor assignments in male-scarce zones.
But that wasn’t the only thing that made ‘Haven’s Den’ a magnet for women willing to shell out the steep entrance fee.
Despite the exclusivity and cost—entry alone could drain a week’s wages for many—this place drew crowds night after night because of its unique draw: male services tailored for female enjoyment.
Breeders.
The club had secured a rare partnership with the government, granting it access to vetted male escorts, or men commonly known as [Breeders], a privilege extended to only a handful of high-end venues.
These men weren’t just any hires; they were carefully screened male escorts, trained to provide companionship, entertainment, and direct physical satisfaction on demand.
Women could browse, bid, and book sessions right from the floor, turning the club into a sanctioned playground for rich women to have sex with men.
These services fueled the club’s popularity. For many, it was the closest they’d get to owning a piece of the male rarity, a taste of sex without the fear of being rejected.
A low whistle caught her ear as she passed a booth recessed into the wall. Three women in their mid-twenties, dressed in sleek leather harnesses that left little to the imagination, lounged around a holographic display flickering with profiles.
Male escorts, rare and exorbitantly priced, their images rotating in slow, teasing loops—close-ups of toned torsos, small cocks semi-erect and glistening, faces blurred for privacy but bodies on full display.
“Look at this one,” one of them said, her voice husky from shouting over the bass.
“Claims he can handle two at once—says he lasts through back-to-back fucks without softening. Bet he’s lying, but I’d pay to test it.”
Laughter erupted, sharp and predatory, as they swiped through options, debating bids like auction hunters.
“That one’s got a big dick—but the price is quite expensive.”
“Oh, I got that man last time. He did have a big dick, but he cums quickly and is done after the first shot. It’s not worth it.”
“For real? Fuck, no wonder he’s only rated D, despite having a big dick. I’d rather have a smaller one then. This guy seems good. He’s rated C.”
“Hey, I got my dibs on him first.”
“Sorry, my hand slipped hahahaha.”
“Shit. This fucker steals what’s mine!”
“You already fuck him a couple of times anyway, why not choose someone else this time?”
They seem to be a group of friends. Though judging from their appearance and behaviors, they seem to be high-born ladies.
If this were before, Christina would have scoffed in annoyance and envy. Male Escorts are hella expensive, even for her. She once tried to save up her money just to afford one, though that didn’t push through when she got a boyfriend, believing that she would not need Male Escorts anymore.
Although that was a complete bust, she didn’t care about it anymore. After all, she now had a stud among studs in her home, just waiting for her.
Christina smirked to herself as she overheard the booth’s chatter, the women’s eager bids for a taste of male flesh.
Pay money just to have sex? Pfft, if they knew I could fuck a man anytime and anywhere I want, they’d be green with envy.
The thought warmed her, a secret thrill cutting through the club’s haze.
Ahh, I miss my brother. Just what is William doing now, I wonder? I hope he’s thinking of me, his cock hardening at the memory of my pussy clenching around him.
She pictured him at home, perhaps stroking himself slowly, waiting for her return so she could mount him, ride his thick shaft until they both shattered in release. She could not help but get horny while thinking about it.
Of course, not all women flocked to ‘Haven’s Den’ for the male escorts—though those rare, government-vetted studs were a massive draw, their availability justifying the exorbitant fees and long lines at the door. For many, the club offered other temptations, raw and immediate, no credits required.
Christina felt a strange gaze prickling her skin and turned her head to find a solitary figure with short, razor-cut hair and a visible tribal tattoo wrapping around a bicep.
The woman’s gaze swept over her before turning toward the crowd, her jaw tight, radiating a frustrated, predatory energy.
Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned faces, discarding most, lingering briefly on a particularly striking topless woman whose movements were a fluid testament to confident sexuality—hips swaying as she ground against a pole, breasts bouncing freely, nipples hard and begging for a mouth to suck them.
The solitary figure’s gaze was assessing, appraising, less about connection and more about potential gratification, like a hunter sizing up prey for the easiest takedown.
