Katya Part II

18+

Part II

Once the poetry was over, the real game started. The lights dimmed, candles flickered, shadows stretched. Sometimes she put on music, something slow, with a beat you could feel in your chest. Other times, it was a film — soft-core, erotic, just shy of explicit, but leaving little to the imagination. The tension in the room would thicken, 
everyone leaning just a bit too close, 
bodies shifting, fingers grazing skin, "accidentally."

Katya loved that moment—the in-between. The uncertainty. It was where she thrived. She’d move through the room like a cat, brushing up against people just enough to spark something, but not enough to commit. Her hand would linger on your shoulder, her lips just a breath away from your ear as she whispered something only for you, though you knew she was doing the same to everyone else. It was all part of the show. 

And then, inevitably, someone would make the first move. A shirt would come undone, a hand would slip under a dress, 
and the room would follow. 
Clothes peeled away, slow at first, as if testing the waters, 
but soon enough, the hesitance vanished. The air filled with soft gasps, low whispers, and the sound of fabric sliding against skin. 

Katya liked to keep her distance at first, watching, almost amused. She’d sit back with her drink, eyes scanning the room, enjoying the chaos she’d set in motion. I’d catch her watching me sometimes, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. She knew I wasn’t there for her, 
not really. She liked the game we played—me pretending she was the center of my world, and her knowing exactly where my gaze lingered when the lights went low.

But Katya didn’t mind. 
She wasn’t possessive; she was a conductor, orchestrating the scene with a few well-placed touches, a whisper here, a lingering glance there. She got off on the control, 
on knowing that everyone in that room was there because of her, 
even if she wasn’t the reason they stayed…