SevenMuse
Muse
- Joined
- Jun 26, 2025
- Posts
- 92
Confessions of a Dangerous Doll: One Night Stand
Confessions of a Dangerous Doll: One Night StandThe hostess clocked my sequins the moment I walked in. Upscale bars have that hush—no one looks too hard until something shines. My jacket was black and beaded, neckline a polite lie. Velvet booths, brass lamps, a bar top burnished like coins. Piano riffs slipped through the chatter and landed on my bare collarbone like a dare.
I chose a corner stool, crossed my legs the way I wanted to, and asked for something that looked innocent and wasn’t. The bartender handed me a French 75. Pale gold, sharp, sweet. I tasted bubbles and gin and saw you in the mirrored backbar watching me watch you.
You didn’t rush. You let two songs pass before sliding onto the stool beside me, elbow on the wood, smile like we were old conspirators. “I was going to ask what you’re drinking,” you said, “but I already ordered it.” Another coupe appeared, the bartender smirking like he’d seen this before.
I tilted my head. “Does ordering for strangers usually work for you?”
“Not usually,” you said. “But I had a feeling you like things that sparkle and sting.”
That earned you my attention. We traded biography in fragments—favorite rooftops, crème brûlée sins, places where the city feels hottest. You made me laugh low, and I watched your mouth like I was choosing dessert.
“What brought you out tonight?” you asked.
“Gratitude,” I said.
“For?”
“The dress that fits. The raise I didn’t ask for. And the fact seduction is a language I speak fluently.”
“Say something in it.”
I leaned close, fogging your glass. “I’m not staying for dessert,” I whispered.
From there the night tilted. We danced without a floor, your palm at the small of my back, sequins scraping your knuckles, my lips brushing your ear. When I told you my perfume was called Don’t Make Promises You Can’t Keep, you laughed, and I filed the sound away to replay later.
Outside, the city gleamed like it had been licked clean. A car waited, as if summoned by hunger. In the backseat, our knees grazed, your hand hovered near mine but didn’t touch, the space between us already throbbing.
The hotel lobby was marble and perfume. We cut a straight line to the elevator. Mirrored walls caught our reflections in every angle: my sequins, your restraint. When the doors closed, silence fell heavy. Your fingers found the back of my neck.
“Second thoughts?” you asked.
“Only about how many.”
Your grin promised trouble.
The hallway smelled like gardenias. My heels clicked, your hand steady on my hip. The key card blinked green, the door whispered open—
The door barely clicks shut before you push me against it. My clutch falls, forgotten, as your hands roam over sequins, tights, skin. I arch against you, heat rising as you rip buttons open, my breath catching with each snap. Tonight isn’t about names. It’s about the way your tongue slides down my collarbone, the way you push my tights aside, the way you fuck me against the wall like you’ve been starving. I moan, legs shaking, body pressed hard against the paint. Some nights were only ever meant to be one-night stands.
But that was only the beginning.
The bedspread turned scandalous against my skin. Shoes vanished under the desk, tights ripped away like they were never meant to last. You went down on me like a man who’d found north, my back arched over hotel white, hands gripping sheets until they wrinkled into maps. I came loud enough to make the headboard thump, and didn’t care who heard.
I flipped you, rode you slow, then faster, sequins scratching until I shrugged them off, naked except for my heels. You held my hips, gasping, “Look at me,” and I did. Eye contact—raw, unblinking—made the climax sharper, the memory deeper.
We collapsed, limbs tangled, laughter edged with exhaustion. Sirens wailed somewhere outside. You brushed my thigh lazily, already ready again.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“For you,” you said.
“Room service first,” I teased, grabbing the phone. I ordered champagne, chocolate cake, strawberries. You slid your hand between my legs while I spoke, forcing me to keep my voice steady.
Twenty minutes is a lot of time. We used every second.
When the knock came, I answered in a robe I didn’t bother tying. The server wheeled in silver domes and a sweating champagne bucket, eyes trained safely on the wall. I tipped him with a smile that left him pink-eared.
You whistled when the door shut. “Cruel.”
“Correct.”
The cake was obscene: dark ganache, cream slumping, strawberries bleeding red. I fed you one by the stem, juice slicking your lip. I licked it away. The champagne popped, fizz kissing my tongue. We ate with our fingers, messy and laughing, frosting on skin you cleaned with your mouth.
The robe fell to the floor. You pulled me over your face like I was the only dessert you needed. I gripped the headboard, moaned your name I didn’t know, gave in until my thighs trembled and my voice broke. You praised me until I collapsed, spent and satisfied, then flipped me one more time just to prove the night wasn’t done.
When it finally was, dawn crept pale through the curtains. The city exhaled below. You watched me raise the last flute of champagne at the skyline, a toast to everything we’d burned through in hours.
“You look like a secret,” you said.
“I am,” I said, smiling.
Not every night needs forever. Some nights are sequins, sex, and room service at three a.m. And when the memory tastes like chocolate, champagne, and a stranger who knew exactly how to be mine for a single night?
That’s not trouble.
That’s art.
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