Twisted Devotion

TWISTED DEVOTION KINGS & CONSORTS POPPY ST. JOHN Copyright © 2023 by Poppy St. John All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover by Opulent Swag and Designs Edited by Bookends Editing CONTENTS Author’s Note Prologue Chapter 1 EMILY Chapter 2 RUARC Chapter 3 EMILY Chapter 4 RUARC Chapter 5 RUARC Chapter 6 EMILY Chapter 7 EMILY Chapter 8 EMILY Chapter 9 RUARC Chapter 10 EMILY Chapter 11 RUARC Chapter 12 EMILY Chapter 13 RUARC Chapter 14 EMILY Chapter 15 RUARC Chapter 16 EMILY Chapter 17 RUARC Chapter 18 EMILY Chapter 19 RUARC Chapter 20 RUARC Chapter 21 EMILY Chapter 22 EMILY Chapter 23 RUARC Chapter 24 EMILY Chapter 25 EMILY Chapter 26 RUARC Chapter 27 RUARC Chapter 28 RUARC Chapter 29 EMILY Epilogue About the Author AUTHOR’S NOTE This book contains content that may be triggering to some readers. For a full list of TWs, please visit the author’s website before proceeding. If you’re still with me, sit the fuck down and turn that page like a good girl. ♥ PROLOGUE Ruarc Discreet. Exclusive. Indulgent. Worth every penny. Masks were club policy at Delirium, but I wasn’t fooling anyone with mine. I could cover my face, but I couldn’t cover the tattoos. Not with each finger on my left hand inked down to the first knuckle and bold black lines carving up my neck to touch my throat. Even in the suit I wore, they were impossible to hide. Anonymity was paramount for the survival of the club but each and every person here knew my name. Knew that I answered to none of them. Only upon the word of a current member and a direct invitation from me could they be allowed the honor of entry to my kingdom. The constraints of our members’ real lives didn’t matter anymore the instant they stepped foot on the property. They paid handsomely for that illusion. To become faceless, nameless avatars that lived for pleasure. Our waitlist rivaled Ivy League colleges, and annual membership cost as much as tuition. The top brass of society were the main clientele. Trophy wives, fuck boys, and mistresses weren’t enough for them. They sought more. Something darker. Dirtier. They wanted taboo. And I gave it to them in fucking spades. When the owner of the city’s biggest telecom company liked to spend his weekends getting whipped on a St. Andrew’s cross, he needed somewhere safe and private to do that. When the revered city priest needed a place to come to be drilled in the ass by a massive cock, I welcomed him. I pulled my mask down, tying the ribbon strands behind my head. The filigreed gold covered half my face, leaving only my jaw visible. I slipped my tie off my neck, popping the button at my throat, revealing more ink-blackened skin. Taking the central staircase down two floors to the ground level, I strode across the high-ceilinged foyer. Nobody walking into the estate would suspect that half of the gothic mansion was a sex club patronized by the most powerful people in this city. Not until they opened the doors. The original eighteenth-century locks were just for show. Popping the lid off of the hidden security panel, I scanned my retina, opening the private entrance. If you entered the club through the other side, the first thing you went through was the security check and cloakroom. No phones or any recording devices allowed, no exceptions. Footage of what went on here could sink political aspirations and ruin careers. Not to mention end a few marriages. Resonant, bass-heavy music and haunting vocals played just loud enough to conceal conversations, but not so that others in attendance couldn’t hear the animalistic sounds of passion and pain. The air hung heavy with the sinful, thick energy of bodies and unbridled desire. The sultry interior provided the backdrop for another world. One brimming with desire, fetish, and kink. Masked patrons in various states of undress looked over, watching me enter, before returning to their partners. Talking, fucking, indulging in everything they were too cowardly to take anywhere else. Ninety percent of our clients were men. Politicians, businessmen, the occasional artist or actor, and of course all the old money degenerates who had memberships at places like this wherever they happened to own property. Their dates were pre-approved before they were allowed into the club. Models mostly. Escorts. Mistresses. Rarely wives. All of them having signed non-disclosure agreements. And then of course there were my women. The ones well trained in every sexual artform, willing to give and take in equal measure. Many walls from floor to ceiling were painted flat black, others coated in the richest damask wallpaper in darkest shimmering red. Dampened lighting set off the color, making it glow as if painted with fresh blood. Candles on brass holders and gothic carvings garlanded the entire space. I nodded to one of my girls as she passed me in the narrow corridor between private rooms that led to a great hall. Her naked tits bounced with each step and she lowered her head in respect as I passed. The main hall opened to semi-private rooms through carved archways. Clients drank, gambled, and fucked on velvet coated tables to voyeuristic audiences. In the main hall, couples and groups lounged on luxurious sofas. A large fire roared all night in the grand, carved fireplace. Two staircases, one on each far corner of the hall led to the mezzanine style second-floor, where the private VIP rooms were located. Besides beds obviously, the rooms were stocked with anything guests could imagine. High-quality leather whips, restraints, wooden paddles, candles, gags, vibrators, dildos, the list was endless. Anything we didn’t have, which was rare, we special ordered in. This bounty could be enjoyed for