Forbidden Cravings
Chapter 108: The Red Room

Chapter 108: The Red Room

"The First Lady..." Jonathan said, his voice low, the words landing like a thunderclap. A deafening silence followed, the room’s musky scent and cigar smoke closing in, the soft hum of the city outside the windows swallowed by the weight of his revelation.

He stared at me, his grin awkward, his eyes flickering with unease, his cigar paused mid-air, sweat beading on his brow. I gave him a blank stare, my face frozen, my mind reeling, the name—the First Lady—echoing in my skull. We blinked at each other three, four times, the silence stretching, my heart pounding.

"What the actual fuck?" I finally said, my voice sharp, breaking the silence.

Jonathan laughed, a nervous chuckle, sipping his wine, the red liquid swirling as he set the glass down with a clink. "Yeah... that’s what I thought when my phone rang this morning and I had to scramble to prepare the papers," he said, his voice lighter. "Whole thing felt like a fever dream," he added, his grin widening.

I exhaled, my breath shaky. "What if I get caught in some extreme problem? That’s the president’s wife, Jonathan. I could get killed or even labelled as a rapist later on. Who knows what can go wrong?" I said, my eyes narrowing, my sneakers pressing into the carpet, the reality sinking in—scandals, security, consequences far beyond the usual risks of this job.

Jonathan waved a hand, his grin steady, his voice calm but firm. "Nah, that won’t happen," he said, leaning forward, his hand clapping my back, the impact pushing me forward but meant to reassure. "How many high-profile women and celebrities have you fucked already? Chill, Ezra. You’re a pro." His eyes twinkled, his faith in me unshaken.

"Yeah, right..." I said, exhaling hard, leaning back into the couch, the leather creaking, my arms stretching wide, "So, it’s gonna be a long night," I said, my voice steadier, accepting the reality, the red room’s demands—submission, the client’s dominance—settling in.

"Yeah," Jonathan said, nodding, his wine glass glinting as he sipped again. "Might take the whole night, so be prepared. You good?" His eyes searched mine, his grin softer, his tone checking in, knowing the intensity of a red room gig, especially this one, wasn’t something to take lightly.

"I’m good," I said, my voice flat, "I can handle it," I added, my resolve hardening.

"You need a libido booster drink or a red pill?" Jonathan asked, his voice light, his grin teasing, offering a crutch for the night ahead, knowing the physical and mental toll of a red room session.

"Yeah, a booster drink would be okay," I said, my tone calm, a faint smile tugging at my lips, the idea of a boost appealing, something to sharpen me for the hours to come, to keep the exhaustion at bay. Something which usually I used to ignore.

"Alright, Mr. Hero," Jonathan said, his grin widening, his tension easing, his phone already in hand as he tapped out a message, presumably to order the drink.

Hours later, the brothel transformed as evening fell, its grand halls lighting up, the chandeliers casting a sultry glow, the faint pulse of jazz and bass seeping through the walls, reaching even the fourth floor. The crowd was filling in below, their laughter and clinking glasses a distant hum, the dance hall alive with guests, the bunny-dressed girls weaving through with trays of drinks.

I stood in one of the red rooms, the space a study in luxury and seduction—crimson walls, a massive bed draped in black leather, a polished BDSM cross gleaming beside it, a red board mounted with floggers, cuffs, and other toys, their shadows dancing in the dim light. Candles burned on a side table, their flames flickering, casting a warm haze, the hypnotic fragrance of musk and sandalwood thick in the air, low music humming from hidden speakers, setting a rhythm that felt alive, waiting.

I wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans, the fabric snug, my white sneakers swapped for black boots, their soles silent on the plush carpet. I hung a flogger on its hook, the leather straps swaying, the room now fully prepared, every detail in place for the client—the First Lady, a name that still sent a jolt through me.

The red dim light bathed the room, softening the edges, the BDSM cross a silent promise of what was to come. I checked the setup one last time, my hands steady, my breath even, the libido booster drink—sweet, tangy, warming my veins—keeping me sharp.

I glanced at my phone, the clock reading 9:00 p.m., the screen glowing with a photo of Aeri and me, taken years ago at the beach—her smile bright, her hair wet, my arm around her, the memory a quiet ache in my chest.

Knock, knock. The sound was soft but sharp, cutting through the music. A waitress of the brothel came, her her voice a whisper.

"She’s here," she said, her heels silent on the carpet, her tray balanced in one hand, her words a signal that the client—the First Lady—would be in the room any second.

"Okay," I said, my voice calm.

Footsteps approached, steady but quick, mingled with Jonathan’s familiar laugh, his voice booming through the hall. "You bet!" he said, his tone bright, teasing, the sound of a man playing host, easing a client’s nerves.

A woman’s voice answered, soft and melodic, a hint of amusement in it. "Hehe, you’re one funny man," she said, her words warm, polished, carrying the effortless charm of someone used to commanding attention.

"Anyways, ma’am, we’re here," Jonathan said, his voice closer now, the *clack* of the door’s handle sharp as it swung open, revealing him in his floral beach shirt, unbuttoned to his hairy chest, his grin wide.

Beside him stood the woman—the First Lady—her black hair cascading in sleek waves, golden highlights catching the red light, her beautiful eyes sharp, framed by long lashes. She wore a thick fur coat, its dark sheen swallowing the light, black gloves covering her hands, her presence radiating power and allure, her lips curving into a faint, confident smile. The air seemed to shift, her gaze met mine, a spark of recognition in her eyes, like she already knew me, though we’d never met.

I stepped forward, my boots silent on the carpet, my face calm, a practiced smile tugging at my lips as I extended my hand. "Good evening, ma’am," I said, my voice smooth, giving a small bow, my fingers gently clasping her gloved hand, lifting it to my lips for a brief, respectful kiss, the leather cool against my skin, her scent—something floral, expensive—filling the space between us.

"So, this is Ezr—" Jonathan started,

"I know," she said, cutting him off, her voice soft but firm, her smile widening, her eyes never leaving mine, the weight of her words stopping Jonathan cold.

"Ezra..." she said, my name rolling off her tongue, soft and deliberate, her eyes tracing my face, her gloved hand lingering in mine a moment longer before she let go, her smile deepening, a hint of something playful, something dangerous, in her gaze.

"Yeah..." Jonathan said, his grin faltering, his eyes darting between us.

"Well, thank you for giving me company till here," she said, turning to him, her smile polite but pointed, her words a clear signal for him to leave, her authority effortless, undeniable.

Jonathan nodded, his grin forced.

"Okay, have a sweet night," he said, stepping back toward the door, "If you guys need anything, just let me know." He gave me a quick look, a mix of encouragement and caution, then slipped out, the door closing with a soft *click*, leaving the room to us, the music and candles the only witnesses, the red light bathing us in its glow.

Instantly, her hands moved to her fur coat, her gloved fingers deftly untying the knot at her waist, the heavy fabric falling to the floor with a soft *thud*, revealing a stunning, heart-stopping sight.

She stood in a black lace lingerie outfit, every detail designed to command—a black lace bra with sheer detailing, its satin-like fabric hugging her curves; a matching garter-style mini dress, its lace elements teasing glimpses of skin; black lace thigh-high stockings clinging to her legs, their delicate patterns catching the red light.

The outfit was pure fire, the kind that could stop any man in his tracks, my breath catching, my pulse spiking.

I stared, my boots rooted to the carpet, my black t-shirt and jeans suddenly plain in comparison, my mind scrambling to process her—the First Lady, the president’s wife, standing here, in this outfit, in this room.

Before I could fully grasp it, her voice cut through, sharp and straightforward, her eyes locking onto mine, her smile gone, replaced by a commanding intensity.

"Lie down," she said, she stepped closer, the red light casting her shadow long, the BDSM cross and bed waiting behind me, the candles’ flames steady, the music a low pulse.

I gulped, my throat tight, "Yes, ma’am," I said, my low, moving to the bed, the black leather cool against my palms as I lay on my back.

I exhaled, my eyes on her. She leaned in, her black hair falling forward, the golden highlights glowing, her gloved hands bracing on the bed, her eyes piercing, her lingerie a stark contrast to the fur coat now pooled on the floor, her scent—floral, commanding—closing the distance.

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