Sublime Agony: The Sublime Trilogy, #1

By Kora Anderson

I fled from my home to another country—a place where I could have a fresh start. I was attending one of the top universities in the world and pursuing my medical degree. I wasn't proud of what I had to do to during the night to afford my dream, but I had to do what I had to do. My daily life was mundane, I kept to myself and avoided any unnecessary attention. Everything changed when the gorgeous, salacious, mercurial Kason Wright decided that he wanted me. I thought that I could keep my feelings out of our arrangement. I thought I wanted him, but I didn't just want him, I needed him. He gave me what I couldn't give myself. You may think that he took advantage of a broken girl, but it wasn't like that. I willingly gave myself to him and he glued me back together. He unraveled my layers, but in the process he opened the Pandora's box that was my past. 
*Disclaimer: do not read if you are sensitive to expletives, capricious men, and kinky sex. Please be aware that there are references of self harm, and drug abuse. There are flashback scenes of abuse and rape, and this book is not intended for anyone under the age of 18.*

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kora Anderson
• Release date: Dec 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310337956

Book preview

Chapter One  

I brush my raven hair down my back, trying to steady my breath and prepare myself. This nervous feeling never really settles; I don't exactly enjoy dancing half naked. It's just a job, a job I would quit if I could.  I pick up my powder off of the well-lighted vanity, and I touch up my flawless porcelain skin with the soft makeup brush. My golden green eyes glow back at me in the clear mirror. I look almost the same as I did in London. I'm just not that snobby polite rich kid anymore, I don't really think I ever was though. I’ve always worn facades. Now I’m stripping to pay the bills. I need the money, I can’t pay for school any other way and I need to make something of myself. I can't ever go back to how it was. I’m choosing to go to school, it's my dream and passion, not someone else’s. It’s what I want to do for a living. I work hard and I'm going to continue doing that until I get my degree. I smooth my hair down one more time, checking for imaginary imperfections.  

I’m beautiful, shockingly. My long silken hair cascades down my sculpted back and thick lashes frame my expressive eyes. I wear a mask throughout the day, one that hides my emotions and the darkness in my soul. No one knows what I’m really like, and to be honest I don't even know anymore. If you remove the makeup you can see the shadows underneath my eyes, and the pain that haunts them. Although, my eyes are unique, because of them I have to take extra care in hiding my emotions. Most people don’t look past the beautiful exterior anyways. I’m not perfect, I’m gorgeous on the outside and empty on the inside. I didn’t start out that way, I used to be a fairly happy teenage girl. Someday it all got fucked up beyond return, including me. I yawn, my mental debate exhausting me further. I’ve got exams to study for, but right now I need to go grind against horny married men, and shake my tits for them to stuff money in.  I check my all white silk lingerie in the full length mirror. When clear of all and every imperfection, I strut out of the tile dressing room on my four inch stilettos.  

My eyes quickly graze the crowd, it’s Friday night so Mirage is packed. The circle design of the club has three stages in the center, surrounding them are rows of lounges and sofas. Some space in the back is secluded for private dances. The walls are a deep blue, but the rest of the club is white save the lounges which are dark onyx. I confidently glide to the center pole— my heels clicking on the marble floor— and begin to wrap my body around it. Nine Inch Nails ‘Closer’ comes over the sound system. The deep beat flows through me. I slide my hands down my lithe body and arch my back, letting my hair cascade to the floor. The audience has a prime view of my tits this way. I slide down the pole, slowly keeping my back arched. When I stand still, I run my hands down frame sensually, and I twist my arms around the cold platinum pole bracing my body. I use my upper strength to pull myself around, my legs whipping through the air. I glide around the air gracefully, each section of my body perfectly controlled. Nothing is out of place, and even though I’m flying through the air I know exactly what my body will look like. I grip the top of the pole and flip upside down, my legs are in the air, the back of my body is pressed towards the pole, and the only thing that is holding me up is the grasp on the rod my arms have. I drop my legs open into a full split. Thank you, rigorous ballet training. I ignore the catcalls from the crowd and move my body to the music. I’ve been dancing here for almost six months now, and I still feel a twinge of guiltiness for what I’m doing. Although, I shouldn’t, it’s my body and I’m not exactly walking the streets. I don’t rejoice in having men’s grubby hands and lascivious eyes on me. I don't actually like anything about my job, other than the fact that in a way I'm still dancing. I’m doing this now to pay for what I really want to do. This is a very nice club, though. It’s not exactly like the classical ballet I used to practice, but I still dance. It’s just a different kind of dancing. The kind that turns people on. When I came to America I didn’t plan to need to be an exotic dancer for money, I had a full scholarship for undergrad school. I’m extremely grateful, even as I wish that my grants for medical school were not partial. I didn’t exactly have a plan for years in the future when I ran. Pole dancing isn’t that bad, it just isn’t something I ever thought I’d do. It doesn’t mean that this is the worst thing I have ever done, because it isn’t. Not by a long shot. It’s just the fact that I’m getting paid that bothers me. I always try to block out my emotions and retreat into my own head. I’m different from how I used to be. I still have a ballerina’s body, although I have some curves now. I’ve got a lengthy torso and muscular legs that go on for miles. The only thing that has never been typical ballerina style are my breasts, they are a full C cup. They were smaller when I was dancing in London. I kept myself on a strict diet, and if and when I did gain weight, it all went to my breasts and ass. Not so convenient for a ballerina, but I like it just fine now. I have strong legs, and a perky toned butt that my short slip dress and fuck-me heels are definitely showing off perfectly. I take a deep breath, focusing myself and shut everything out; including all of the sleazy men ogling me. There have been good looking men in the club, I’m just never actually attracted to them and their touch usually repels me. I hook my left leg around the platinum rod and slide down it slowly. I role and shake my body against the side of the pole to the low thump of the music. The music can always take me somewhere. I can shut out everything around me and move to the beat. The words the artist sings have meaning. They express all of the feelings and emotions I can’t.  I spin around the pole once as the song slows. Whoa, I'm dizzy and it's not because of the turn I landed. When I come to still, my eyes meet the most breathtaking man I have ever seen. He’s leaning back against the front row lounge, his arms laid out around it, as if he is making himself at home. His piercing azure eyes burn right through me, and his dark auburn hair falls to his shoulders. He looks built well and he’s wearing a perfectly fitted designer suit. He exudes power and his eyes regard me shrewdly. Strangely, for a minute I feel as if he can see past the perfect exterior and confident personality to the broken girl inside.  The girl who has taken and done anything to feel better. The teenager who had her life decided for from the moment she was born, and who had the dreams she had ripped away. I force my eyes away from him. You can’t let people know any of my weaknesses because if you do they can hurt you. If you seem perfect and bland, people have no ammunition to tear you down. I’m here to work and make money and that’s what I need to do. 

I fumble for a second in my routine when our eyes meet and then quickly pick myself up. I grew up with money, I know what it looks like, and the man with the burrowing eyes has an abundance of it. Most of the guys that come here are older, wealthy men with a boring marriage, or young college boys, which in the beginning I was worried about. Although, if someone from Yale did come here they probably wouldn’t recognize me. I keep an unassuming life at school. I don’t attend the parties and dress casually. I’m just the pretty, smart, English girl. I look different with stage makeup on and dressed in clothes that don’t really count as clothes. Most men are enraptured by my movements and body. I make quite good money here and I’m a club favourite. There have been a lot of men that have walked into this club before, and I’ve never had one grace the crowd that took my breath away. I’ve been with my fair share of handsome men; it comes with the territory. When I started dancing here, I came to the mindset that I used to show my body to men for free, and even though I got an occasional mundane orgasm out of it, it was nothing special. Now I show my body and get paid for it.  That’s makes it okay right? Yeah not really, but it’s what I have to do. I refocus and continue to coast my hands down my body. I slowly push the straps of my white lace slip down my shoulders, letting it pool around my ankles. I usually wear layers of clothing because I don’t like to reveal as much as the other dancers. If I take off enough it makes up for the fact that all my beguiling parts are covered. I walk back around the stage and wrap my 5’9 body around the pole once more. I twirl around the pole, shaking my thong and garter clad ass. I never dance topless even though most of the dancer’s do. The manager Sally lets it slide because I’m one of their most popular dancers. It took some convincing and at one point I thought she was going to fire me. I would be fired before I danced topless. There is a certain amount of myself that I’m willing to reveal to a crowd of men and show off for money. Being topless feels naked to me. Whereas if I’m wearing a teensy bra and panties, I can think of it as a bikini. I’m quite talented at manipulating my own mind. I move sensually against the pole to the beat of the music. As the song ends, two blonde dancers come out and mount the pole to the left and right of me. That’s my queue to interact with the customers. My eyes lock with Mr. Eyes again and I walk toward him. If I keep my walls up and my mask on we won’t have a problem. I’m pretty sure I imagined the way his eyes saw through me. I like center my attention to the ones with money, and he has it.  Superficial ho! Well I am doing this for money! I chastise my pestering thoughts and put them in time out. I slowly walk up to Mr. Eyes, swaying my hips with each movement and straddle his lap. I flutter my eyelashes and lean forward to give him a view of my full chest. I grind my hips against him and arch my back, my hair falling down his legs. My torso is supported by his toned lap; I know he is viewing the way my breasts are trussed up and the way my legs are parted. When I come back up, his eyes are shinning with molten heat. I move my hips against his and my breath hitches. I have come into contact with a lot of erections being pressed against me but, seriously. Talk about massive. I’ve not had sex in ages, and desire pools in my tummy. That’s not supposed to happen. That never happens. Not even when I want it to happen. I remind myself he is probably just a sleaze ball, bored with his wife. Although, he looks to be only a few years my senior. I shake off the thought and center myself to finish my dance. I run my hands down his dress shirt, as I move my ass against him. While I finish my dance our eyes meet again. It’s like he’s searing my skin.  You’re just horny! I begin to tear myself away from and he catches my wrist. It momentarily shocks me, but I regain my composure. He pulls out what looks like three hundred dollar bills and places them in-between my breasts. The warmth of his fingers against my skin, and the way he gently slides the money into my bra has my nipples tightening. His touch wasn't a grope at all, it wasn't about how much he could get away with touching as he slid the money in my bra. It felt like a caresses, a soft one that projected the idea that he knew exactly how to pleasure a women's body.  I barely even notice that he tipped me three hundred dollars. I lean into his ear, and I catch the soft musk and peppermint scent of him. Holy hell, he smells good. Which I’m also not supposed to like. I’m not supposed to like anything about the customers; I usually never do. I steady myself. 

Thank you, baby, I coo, trying to mask my English accent. I’ve been in America for almost four years now, since I got accepted to Yale. I’ve learnt all of the American terminology, but it doesn’t matter. There is still an English twinge to my voice. It may seem strange that I try to suppress my accent, people tell me it's fucking hot. And by people I mean men. To me, it reminds me of London. I desperately want to forget everything that happened there, and I do it to the best of my abilities. I changed as much about myself as I could when I ran to New York.  

No, thank you, Mr. Eyes whispers in my ear, his luscious lips almost touching me. His voice is husky and smooth at the same time. It makes me want to impale myself on that delicious treat hidden under his Armani suit pants.  No! Yes.  

A smirk graces his perfectly proportioned face as he notices the desire flash across my face, and I’m certain he can notice my pebbled nipples straining against the thin fabric of my outfit. I force myself to pull myself away and walk back to my stage. I would usually give a few lap dances before going back to strip with the other dancers. Mr. Eyes seems to have quite an effect on me, and I took longer with him then I probably should have, so I head back to the stage. There are rules for being a stripper and one of them is that you can pretend all you want that the man you’re dancing is attractive and that you want them, you’ll get tipped more that way. Give out your best sensual looks and movements. You can’t actually be turned on by them and want to fuck them. For me, that has never happened before, ever. Even if I’m dancing on a handsome guy.  It leads to indecent proposals which I usually get anyways. One of the nice things about dancing here is that the bouncers are really attentive. Not that I would have any experience of what it’s like at other strip clubs. Mirage is one of the classiest and most decent exotic dancing clubs in the area. We actually get paid a salary on top of our tips, the most popular dancers do. I take deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart and the need at the apex of my thighs.  Never fuck the clients. It’s my rule and I never have wanted to break it. But those eyes and those lips. That brown hair which is so thick it almost looks black and I would really like to tug on.  I sigh inwardly. As I flip around the pole, I realize I still have most of my outfit on. I come to a stop at the end of my turn. I step out of my heels, bending down to show off my toned ass. Looking up at Mr. Eyes because I seem to be a glutton for punishment, I slowly lift my leg to my head. I release the grip my hands have on my leg and hold it there with my muscles. Next I unclip my garter belt. I pull my stockings off letting my hands caress my leg, erupting a few cheers of encouragement from the crowd. I barely even notice because my eyes and my attention are trained on Mr. Eyes. Fuck! Why am I doing that? I turn around and tilt my bum up in air as I give one last twirl around the pole. The music slows once again, and it’s my cue to dance around the crowd. I avoid Mr. Eyes because he has already given me three c-notes. I move around a bachelor party, presenting my tits to them. They stuff money all too slowly in my panties and bra. Their touch is giving me the shivers and not the good kind. Although, it’s not as if they aren’t good looking. They look to be about my age, and if I had to guess they are soccer players or some sort of varsity jocks. One of them is probably getting married to a blonde cheerleader, that he will cheat on. Poor girl. She thinks she is in love. I almost scoff at the idea. I move onto the next guy who is sitting further down on the same lounge as Mr. Eyes. I purposely avoid his gaze, although I can see him out of the corner of my eyes. I focus on the man I’m supposed to be dancing on, which I don’t really want to do either. His hair is slightly graying and he looks like he is in his late thirties. He seems like the kind that has a wife, 2.5 kids at home and works as an accountant or lawyer. My least favourite. I dance around him, and I trail a long nail down his chest. I keep a fake sensual look plastered on my face, as I lightly move my ass against his leg. He reaches up with two scrawny hands and squeezes my butt. I’m definitely going to need to take a shower when I get home. Before I can even warn him that he isn’t allowed to touch me, a low growl comes from in front of me. Mr. Eyes.  

Don’t touch the dancer, he rasps at the man who indecently touched me.  

The man releases his hands from me immediately, looking intimidated. Yeah, buddy I get it. I’m intimidated too. And slightly pissed off.  He thinks I can’t take care of myself and that I need him to rescue me? He has another thing coming.  I back away from the cowering man and stand up in front of Mr. Eyes.  

Are you alright? he asks, looking me over.  

Ha! That’s a great question. Do I care that some married man groped my ass? Not really. I can take care of myself. I’m not some weakling that needs someone to look after them.  

I’m perfectly fine, I snap, sending him a viscous glare.  

Mr. Eyes looks around the room at the people who are starting to stare at us. I’m surprised the bouncers haven’t intervened yet. He walks close to me and grasps my wrist. Not harshly, but hard enough to pull me with him. He drags me to the dressing room. How does he know where that is?  

What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I yell as soon as were inside the dressing room.  I wasn’t about to cause a scene in front of everyone.  

You're done dancing tonight, he runs his hand through his hair, as if he's aggravated.  

The nerve on that man. And it was if he was demanding me. How is that any of his business? The hell I am! I need the money. Who do you think you are? I bark at him, putting my hands on my skimpily cladded hips.  

He laughs. He fucking laughs. It’s deep and rich too— bloody hell. Why in the world is he laughing? I stare at him with wide eyes. He sees my shocked face, stops laughing, and smirks. He pulls out his wallet and removes at least ten crisp bills. He hands the money towards me; my jaw almost drops when I see that there is a thousand dollars or more in my hands. 

You’re done dancing tonight, he repeats and stalks out of the room, slamming the dressing room door.  

Holy fuck. I lean against the vanity counter while I shove the money in my bra. I could have sworn he was going to try to get me to suck him off for money. As much as I need the money, I wouldn’t have done it. Yet he didn’t ask me for anything. He demanded that I’m not dancing anymore tonight, handed me more than I would have made in two nights combined and walked out, leaving me dumbfounded. What in the hell is his deal? I guess it doesn’t matter. He didn’t murder me or try to fuck me, so that’s a plus. I shake off my puzzled thoughts.  

I'm definitely visiting the bank. I’m about to get changed and leave when Scarlet enters the room. Scarlet is a petite redhead with a gorgeous body, and she took me under her wing when I first came here. 

You looked hot out there, sweetie. I saw you dancing on Mr. Wright, isn’t he hot? And then everyone was saying he dragged you off of some guy. Did you fuck him? she rambles, her red lips curving into a smile. 

Mr. Eyes? I didn’t fuck him. Why would I? Yeah, I get he is jaw droppingly handsome, but he is probably just some random guy who is a massive lying and cheating twat like the rest of them.  

Uh, no. Who is he? I ask, slightly agitated. Is he a regular? I’ve been here for a while and I’ve never seen him. 

He owns this place, silly.  Don’t you read Forbs magazine? He owns clubs and hotels all over America. Wright hotels and acquisitions Incorporated, babe, Scarlet chirps, touching up her lipstick. 

Oh. My. God. 

So everyone knew who he was except me? That’s why the bouncers didn’t do anything when he practically carried me backstage. That’s why he laughed when I asked who he was.  

Just great. And to top it off he has to be the best looking guy I have ever seen. Yes, he’s that fuck hot.  This is definitely mortifying. I knew there was some enigmatic owner, but I thought Sally really ran the place. I guess I should have done some googling.  

What’s his first name? I currently want to redo the last couple hours. Make that my whole life. 

Kason. Kason Wright. He’s in town on business I guess, he comes here occasionally. I’m shocked you haven’t heard of him. But you’ve been living in that sheltered London for all your life, she chuckles and walks out of the dressing room. His name is Kason. Why does it have to be such a voluptuous name?  

I’ve got the hots for the owner. The very rich owner. Oh fucking hell.

Chapter Two

I fish out all of the money out of my outfit and quickly stuff it in my handbag. I take off what’s left of my dancing outfit, and redress in a pair of skinny jeans and a dark navy henley. I wipe off most of my eye makeup, grab my trench coat, and head out the back door. Once safely enclosed in my car, I pull my tips out of my purse and count them. 1,650 dollars! Yes. I stop at the bank quickly on my way home and deposit my tips.  

Balance: $1,705 

Shit. 

I’ve got to pay this terms tuition in a few weeks. I have a partial scholarship at school, but I still have to pay a portion and 1,705 dollars do not cut it. I’ve to pay my rent as well. I moll over my thoughts on the drive home and by the time I actually arrive to my apartment I’m half asleep. I shove my key into the lock on my apartment door and push it open. Once I’ve closed the door and locked it behind me, I track into the small kitchen right next to the front door. The whole apartment is about 600 square feet, but I’m hardly ever here, so it doesn’t really matter to me. The apartment acts as one open room, the only enclosed parts are my bedroom and bathroom. I didn’t bring much when I came from London, other than some money which has all been spent. Wisely, I might add. The apartment is furnished, quite nicely as things go. It’s just very small and I’ve not really done much to make it homier. I throw my handbag down onto the dark kitchen counter. I eat a quick dinner and run through a quick shower routine. Once I’m thoroughly fed and clean, I force my brain to stay awake long enough to do some well needed googling on my laptop. I boot up my old MacBook. It’s one of the things I brought with me from London, after I swept it of all tracking devices. I open the trusty google and my fingers falter on the keyboard. Do I really want to go to depths and google my potential billionaire boss? Yeah I do. Especially the one who dragged me off stage? Once again why did he do that? What can I say, I’m curious. I type Kason Wright into the search bar and press enter. I almost gasp aloud. There are pages and multiple articles and websites mentioning his name. ‘Top ten most eligible bachelors in New York City’, ‘Forbes Richest’, ‘Kason Wright takes over Wright Hotels, and acquisitions Incorporated’. Mother of all things holy. I gave a lap dance to one of the richest men in the world— he got pissed for some reason— and yanked me to the dressing room; where he demanded I stop dancing for the night and gave me a thousand dollars. What is my life? He owns bloody hotels. The fact that he can swim in money seems to make me dislike him more. Not that I disliked him in the first place. I grew up with money and usually the people that have it are focused on material things. They believe that nothing can touch them because they can buy their way out of the situation. If they don’t have their money, they are aught. They will do anything to get it back. The sad thing is that is partially true. I’ve been privy to a front row seat of proof to my claim. I need to try and avoid Kason the best I can. He is technically my boss; I will be polite and collected if I run into him again, as long as he doesn’t demand I stop dancing. Although, he could fire me. I’m rather brilliant at what I do, so I don’t believe he would do that. Mr. Wright seemed ticked off over the fact that I snapped at him after he tried to tell the sleaze-ball to keep his hands off of me. I guess he doesn’t get challenged that often. Since I need the job, I will suck it up and listen to him in the future. I’m quite a hypocrite; I wouldn’t want anyone googling me—especially if they knew my real surname— so I pry myself away from the computer, denying myself any further snooping. I don’t even know him. I’m just a stripper/med-student. He is just a billionaire. I shuffle to bed, trying to put Kason out of my mind.  

I toss and turn, my mind concocting images of a certain azure eyed god. My plan to eradicate him from my mind failing epically. I eventually fall into a deep sleep seeded by my heavy exhaustion. I wake early on Saturday, planning to spend the whole day studying. I slept well the night before. Any night I don’t wake up screaming is a good night’s sleep, in my book. I lay out all of my textbooks and notebooks across my kitchen counter, and grab a quick glass of juice from my small fridge. I settle on my metal bar stool and, I begin to study all of the information from my Neuroanatomy class, taking bullet notes on anything I deem important. I ingrain all of the important information into my brain. I've got finals the coming weeks, and it’s trivial I do well. I start to develop small blisters on my right hand, from all of my note-taking. Some people like to type their notes, and I can see their point. Although, I feel like I’m able to understand the details better if I write them with my own hand first; I can always type them up later. My hand writing has always been messy, and I mainly take notes to help myself learn the details. Sometimes I type them up once I’m done and throw them in my car, so I can go over them when I have a free minute. I stay in my pajamas until about 6:00 when I have to get ready for work. I don't  dance that often during the week, due to my classes; I rarely was able to do it on Fridays because I got out of class fairly late. I pull