Ruined in the Rhythm

Almost midnight,

Saturday spilling into sin,

and there she is—

stepping out of a taxi,

jeans hugging her curves,

black bodysuit painted 

tight against her skin.

I know what’s hidden beneath:

lace bra, satin thong i got her,

and inside her—

my secret hum,

my toy, my control.

The night air is cold,
but the heat between us
ignites the moment she smiles.
I pull her close,
kiss her mouth,
her lips already wet with promise.
She laughs softly,
“Daddy…”
and just like that,
my night is set on fire.

We duck into the taco shop,
the neon buzzing above us,
the world spinning slower
while we order plates of midnight hunger.

Tacos, Carnitas, Salsa, Horchata
hot sauce dripping down fingers.
But the real spice
is in the way her thigh brushes mine,
dirty talk and forbidden conversations

how her hand slides to my knee,
her lips curling as she whispers,
“Wait until later.”

We eat, we flirt,
we touch under the table,
her body pressed close,
my hand teasing the waistband of her jeans,
knowing she’s already soaked.
Her laughter is reckless,
her eyes a dare,
her mouth a sin.
Every bite of food
is a countdown
to the chaos we’re walking toward.

Outside again—

midnight wind cutting sharp,
but her body is a furnace.
She presses into me,
a hug too tight to be innocent,
pheromones wrapping around my senses.

Her whisper curls against my ear:
“It’s your turn, Daddy.”
And into my palm
she slips the remote.

Ten minutes to the club.
Ten minutes of her body jerking,
limping, giggling in gasps,
moaning into the dark.

Every press of my thumb
sends her stumbling into me,
her breath ragged,
her eyes glazed with ache.
Strangers walk past us,
but we are invisible,
just another couple in the city night—
if only they knew
she was breaking with every step.

By the time the music thumps

from the club’s glowing entrance,
she’s trembling, clutching me,
her lips desperate against mine.
We wait in line,
her body pressed tight,
her perfume mixing with sweat and lust.

I flick the toy to full throttle—
and she shatters.
A muffled cry,
her face buried against my chest,
her arms locking around me.

Not the cold—no,
this trembling is heat, pleasure,
her first orgasm of Sunday,
midnight’s dirty gift.
She breathes me in,
moans against my neck,
a shaking slut waiting
for the doors to open,
for the night to swallow us whole.

We shove through the door

and the room swallows us—

black bodies, neon flashes, 

bass that thumps like a pulse in the planet.

Crowded, warm, sticky with sweat and want,

lights slicing the dark into electric kisses.

I grab two gin & tonics, hand one to her, 

watch her take it like a dare.

Then we move—closer, 

deeper—into the crush.

She starts to dance for me first: 

slow, dangerous, hips working the rhythm,

a tease that says she’s mine and she knows it.

Her bodysuit clings, her jeans gone, 

the satin thong a secret under skin;

she grinds, she bends, 

she presses that wet cunt into me,

riding my bulge through fabric 

like a private confession.

Hands roam—mine claim everywhere: 

hips, the dip of her waist, 

firming the meat of her ass,

palming breast, 

thumbs circling nipples over lace, 

neck kissed and marked.

Every squeeze says the same thing: 

she’s mine tonight.

Men glance—eyes sliding 

fast like hungry knives—

but when she kisses me hard, 

when she presses her mouth to mine,

the message is clear: she belongs to me.

Their looks scramble away like light.

A shadow of a man she knows

her casual fuck buddy from the past

stands a beat away, watching.

Jealousy writes itself across his face; 

his jaw clenches.

He doesn’t step forward.

He better not.

 

He only stares as 

I tighten my grip on her waist,

as I press her back to me and 

let the toy inside her scream under my thumb.

unspoken words of my power move is

“You see her. She is mine.” 

“She always was mine tonight.”

For an hour the club becomes our altar.

I ride the beat on her hips with my hands, 

and my thumb rides the remote.

Full throttle—no mercy

electric pulses smashing her,

each press sending her into 

white flashes of pleasure 

that she can’t hide.

She is loud, filthy, beautiful—

five, eight, maybe more 

orgasms folding into each other,

her legs trembling, 

her throat raw from calling my name.

“Daddy—oh Daddy—please —” 

she pants into my neck.

I laugh low, cruel, soft. 

“Good girl. Keep dancing for me.”

“Daddy's dirty little slut.”, i say

She grinds harder, 

as i press her boobs like stress balls

a show of devotion and defiance—

for him, for them, 

for every eye that thinks it has a right.

When the music swells 

I pull her close and whisper,

“Ready to go, baby?”

Her eyes go glassy with want. 

“Let’s go,” she breathes, 

but near my ear she begs,

“Take me to your hotel.”

I blink—“My hotel?”

She nods hard, 

cheeks flushed, 

breath hot, 

voice sure:

“Yes. Take me there.”

“Fuck me. Own me. Destroy me.”

“PLEASE DADDY...”

Her voice is a command I accept. 

I press the remote to the edge

full animal—the toy inside her answers 

like a beast, 

and she jerks, limps, 

laughs, moans.

I kiss her, hard, 

claim her mouth, 

While he watches us

and then I put the toy on 

fucking full throttle.

“Walk with me,” I tell her, 

fingers laced in the small 

of her back, guiding.

She stumbles 

but she wants it—

every step is a surrender 

and a promise.

Her legs quake, 

her breath shudders; 

she takes each block 

like penance, like worship.

People part around us; 

the city becomes a corridor to a 

bed that will remember our names.

She keeps whispering between moans:

“Daddy, I can’t—”

“You want Daddy or not” I say,

“Yes Yes Yes” she says,

voice low as thunder.

She laughs, a broken little thing, 

and grips me like a lifeline.

We move out into the Montreal night, 

neon bleeding above us,

and her hips sway with every press of the remote

an open secret for the street.

She is my 

messy, 

loud, 

needy 

property

limping, 

whispering, 

aching

and I am more than ready to 

make sure she remains so.

yes we are about to

MAKE

MORE 

FORBIDDEN

MIDNIGHT 

MONTREAL 

MISTAKES