CHAPTER 20: The Carving
Clara's penthouse towered above the city like a cathedral of secrets — and tonight, it pulsed with promise.
Arisa stepped out of the private elevator and into a hallway soaked in rose-tinted light. She heard the low throb of ambient music — not loud, but rhythmic, intimate, like breath echoing in an empty room. The walls were deep crimson, the floors marble black. Her heels clicked softly as she moved, sound swallowed by the plush air.
Then she entered the den.
Velvet. Gold. Candlelight.
The room wasn't just warm. It was feverish. Smoke curled lazily from a circle of incense sticks on the floor, the scent of jasmine thick enough to taste. Champagne bottles sweated on low tables. Crystal glasses glinted on silver trays. The air shimmered — as if the walls themselves were breathing.
And at the center of it all: the demon girls.
They weren't seated like guests. They lounged like gods.
Valeria sprawled across a sunken couch, robe untied, her long legs bare and glossy with oil. She had a glass of wine in one hand, her head tilted back, expression unreadable.
Sonya sat cross-legged on the floor, topless, her painted black nails playing with the stem of a cherry between her teeth. Her sharp gaze tracked Arisa like a wolf deciding where to bite.
Elara, ever the quiet one, was kneeling beside a tray of sweets, her fingers dipped in melted chocolate, idly licking them clean while staring straight at Arisa's thighs.
And Clara, of course, sat above them all — on a low platform couch, her legs crossed, a pearl-handled knife turning slowly between her fingers. She wore an elegant black corset, leather gloves, and nothing else. Her hair fell around her like smoke, and her smirk deepened as Arisa stepped forward.
"Well," Clara purred. "The lamb arrived after all."
Arisa didn't speak. She met Clara's gaze with eyes like frost.
Clara leaned forward and gestured to the plush ottoman at the center of the room. "Sit. We're playing truth or dare."
Arisa walked without hesitation. She moved like she belonged here — but everyone in the room knew she was the only one not soaked in sweat and oil and scent.
She was still untouched.
That would change.
She sat on the ottoman, spine straight, legs crossed, the hem of her sheer black slip ghosting just past mid-thigh. The fabric clung to her, showing enough to entice, not enough to give. Her stockings were thigh-high and lace-topped. Her neck was bare. Her lips unpainted.
She was the flame in a room of moths.
Valeria flicked a card toward Arisa. "You start."
Clara's knife stopped spinning. She caught it and pointed it directly at her.
"Truth or dare, ice queen?"
Arisa's lips curled, just a fraction.
"Dare."
A current moved through the room like a breath held too long.
THE FIRST ROUND
"Take off a strap," Clara said simply. "One."
Arisa didn't blink. She reached up, fingers sliding the right strap of her slip off her shoulder. The thin black fabric fell, exposing the upper swell of her breast. The candlelight painted her skin like gold on porcelain. She didn't cover herself. She didn't flinch.
Valeria sipped her wine, eyes locked to the spot where Arisa's skin met lace.
The game continued.
THE SECOND ROUND
It was Valeria's turn. Her question was direct.
"Why do you let people touch you like they own you?"
Arisa hesitated. Not because she didn't have an answer.
But because the answer was dangerous.
Silence filled the room.
Clara smiled slowly. "Time's up."
"Slip to the waist," Sonya added, voice low and delighted.
Arisa's fingers found the hem of the slip. She lifted it slightly, then let it fall — her breasts now fully bared, torso visible, down to the sharp line of her hips. Her skin was flushed, but her expression was ice.
Elara's tongue flicked over her lips.
"You don't look afraid," she whispered.
"I'm not," Arisa answered.
THE THIRD ROUND
It was Sonya's turn, and she didn't hold back.
A drinking challenge: three shots, no reaction. Arisa tilted her head back, the burn of liquor slicing her throat like fire.
She blinked. Once.
But her lips parted.
Too slow.
"Strip," Clara said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. "All the way."
Arisa stood. She didn't hesitate.
The slip slid down her body and pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it with the grace of someone shedding armor.
Now she stood — tall, pale, and bare — save for her black lace stockings.
The air changed. Thicker. Heavier.
Valeria set down her glass.
Elara stopped breathing.
Sonya shifted forward like a cat about to pounce.
But Clara stood, knife still in hand. She walked toward Arisa, her heels silent on the marble floor.
"No more games," she whispered.
She stopped just inches away. Arisa didn't move.
Clara reached up and cupped her jaw with gloved fingers. "You knew what tonight was."
"I did," Arisa whispered.
"Say it."
Arisa's throat worked. Her voice came out soft, but clear.
"I'm here to be carved."
Clara smiled, slow and cruel.
She turned to the others and spoke one word:
"Strip."
The slip lay like a puddle of shadow at Arisa's feet, forgotten.
She stood in nothing but her stockings and her silence, chest rising in shallow waves, skin glistening under the heat of the candles. The room around her was no longer a den of playful predators.
It was a ritual circle.
Clara stepped forward first.
She moved with the confidence of a woman who'd already tasted this moment in her mind a hundred times—slow, composed, unhurried. Her gloved fingers brushed Arisa's jaw as she tilted her head up, forcing eye contact.
"You're trembling," Clara said softly.
"I'm not afraid," Arisa whispered.
"I never said you were."
Then Clara leaned in and kissed her.
Not a peck. Not a teasing press.
Clara claimed her.
Her mouth was hot, consuming, tasting of wine and control. Her tongue parted Arisa's lips with practiced force, devouring her breath, silencing the last edges of restraint. Arisa gasped against her, and Clara took that too.
The room fell completely silent.
Valeria licked her bottom lip. Sonya's eyes narrowed with sharp hunger. Elara let out a slow, audible exhale and pressed her thighs together.
When Clara pulled away, Arisa was dazed—flushed, unsteady, lips wet and swollen.
"Sit," Clara ordered, voice now gravel and fire.
Arisa obeyed.
The bed was massive and low, draped in dark satin sheets that caught every flicker of light. Clara guided her back until she was lying flat, legs slightly parted, arms at her sides. She didn't resist. She offered.
Clara reached behind her, pulling the gloves from her hands one finger at a time. Then she knelt on the bed, straddling Arisa's hips.
"Tell me if it's too much," she said, even though she didn't mean it.
Then she began.
Her hands moved like music—fingertips skimming over collarbones, across the soft rise of Arisa's breasts, tracing the edge of her ribs. Her nails dragged faint lines down the girl's belly, stopping just above the place they all wanted to touch but weren't allowed to yet.
Arisa arched instinctively. Her breath hitched. Her thighs twitched.
"You want more?" Clara asked, voice husky.
Arisa nodded. That was enough.
Clara's mouth replaced her fingers. She kissed down Arisa's chest—first one breast, then the other—teeth grazing, tongue flicking, lips worshipping. Arisa gasped, her hands gripping the sheets, her back lifting from the bed as Clara's mouth circled, sucked, claimed.
The noises Arisa made weren't loud.
But they were real.
Clara's hands held her hips down with calculated pressure, and her mouth trailed lower—down the line of her stomach, kissing along her pelvis, biting the soft flesh just above the lace of her stockings.
Then she stopped.
"Valeria," she called without looking back.
Valeria moved like a panther—silent, sensual, graceful. She climbed onto the bed and immediately went for Arisa's mouth. Their kiss was different—slower, smoother, a battle of tongues and lips, of breath shared and stolen.
Clara watched while her fingers moved lower.
Arisa didn't even notice. Her focus was split, overwhelmed.
Sonya followed next, crawling up from the foot of the bed, eyes glowing with hunger. She didn't go for a kiss. She went for skin.
Her mouth latched onto Arisa's shoulder, biting, sucking, branding. A dark bruise bloomed just under her collarbone. Sonya didn't stop until Arisa whimpered—and then she licked the wound like a kitten.
"Elara," Clara said quietly.
She didn't need to say more.
Elara approached like she was approaching an altar. She knelt at the foot of the bed, lifted Arisa's leg, and began to anoint her.
Cool oil spilled from a small crystal vial into her palm. She warmed it briefly, then smoothed it onto Arisa's calves. Her fingers moved slow, reverent, inching up over her thighs, worshipping every curve.
Clara grabbed Arisa's hair and tilted her head to the side.
"Keep your eyes open," she whispered. "Watch them while they worship you."
Arisa's vision was glassy, but she obeyed.
She watched Sonya suck another bruise into her chest.
She watched Valeria bite her lip while sliding a finger down Arisa's throat.
She watched Elara's tongue flick out to taste the inside of her knee, then lower, closer, slow and agonizing.
Clara finally moved again—her fingers sliding down to where Arisa was aching.
But she didn't touch.
She just hovered.
"You've never been wanted like this," Clara said softly. "Have you?"
Arisa's answer was a breath.
"No."
"Do you like it?"
"Yes."
Clara smiled.
"Then give in."
She finally touched her.
Arisa gasped—loud, broken, shocked by the sensation. Clara's fingers were slick with oil, precise, cruel and kind all at once. She didn't rush. She circled, teased, withdrew. The others didn't stop either:
Valeria kissed her neck, murmuring filth.
Sonya bit her ribs, marking her side.
Elara now had both hands on her thighs, her breath warm and wet as she neared where Clara worked.
Arisa was unraveling.
Not begging.
But reaching.
Every time Clara's touch neared the center, Arisa's hips bucked. Every kiss from Valeria was a fire in her blood. Every bite from Sonya made her cry out softly. Elara's hands were shaking—but she didn't stop.
And then Clara kissed her again.
Hard. Deep. Devouring.
While her fingers pressed in.
Arisa moaned into her mouth, shuddering under the weight of pleasure, her whole body arching like a bowstring pulled taut. She wasn't being seduced anymore.
She was being taken.
And she wanted more.
She gasped between kisses, her hands now grabbing for someone, anyone—Valeria's hair, Elara's wrist, Sonya's hip, Clara's throat.
"Please," she whispered.
Clara stilled.
"Please what?"
Arisa blinked.
"Don't stop."
And Clara didn't.
Clara's touch sent a shiver down Arisa's spine as she pinned her against the mattress.
The gentle strokes of her fingers danced across Arisa's skin, leaving trails of desire in their wake.
The diamond-shaped stud piercing at the top of Arisa's throat gleamed under the soft light as Clara's eyes locked onto hers.
"Your beauty is nothing without vulnerability," Clara whispered, her breath warm against Arisa's ear. "And I want to see you shake."
With a movement so gentle it was almost imperceptible, Clara guided Arisa's head back, angling her for a better view.
One hand still cradled Arisa's jaw, the other slipped between her legs, coaxing her closer to the edge.
"I'll show you what it means to be truly seen," Clara promised, her voice low and husky. "To be desired not just for my body, but for your own."
Clara's fingers moved with deliberate slowness, tracing the curves of Arisa's body before finally settling between her thighs. The pressure was exquisite, a slow, steady rhythm that left Arisa gasping for air. Each circle, each stroke, built the tension higher, winding it tighter around her core.
"You're trembling," Clara murmured, watching Arisa closely.
"I love how responsive you are. How easily I can make you unravel."
Her thumb found that sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing insistently. Arisa's hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction, more contact.
Clara chuckled, dark and knowing.
"That's it," she breathed.
"Let go. Let me see you come apart."
Arisa's breath came in short, sharp pants, her fingers digging into the sheets as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter within her. Clara increased the pace, her touch growing firmer, more insistent, until with a cry that tore from her throat, Arisa shattered.
The waves of sensation crashed over her, leaving her boneless and shaking. Clara watched, a satisfied smile on her lips.
"Beautiful," she said softly. "Absolutely beautiful."
Clara didn't stop even after Arisa had reached her climax, her strokes slowing only slightly as they lingered at the peak of pleasure. Arisa's body continued to spasm, milking every last drop of pleasure from the orgasm.
As the tremors subsided, Clara wrapped her arms around Arisa's waist, holding her close as she lay back against the pillows.
Her chest heaved against Arisa's back, their skin sticky with sweat as she held her captive.
"Like that?"
Clara whispered, her breath hot against Arisa's ear.
"Do you like being mine?"
Arisa tried to respond, but all that came out was a weak, gasping moan.
Clara chuckled, the sound husky and triumphant.
"Good," she said, her voice still low and sultry. "Because once you're mine, no one else will ever have you again."