22: Club Zero

The sun had just started to dip behind the skyline when Bharath walked into Sarah’s room, towel still damp around his neck from the shower. The air smelled faintly of vanilla body lotion, dry shampoo, and something faintly spicy - like cinnamon.

The room was lit only by the soft orange glow of the Halloween string lights that Marisol had insisted on pinning above the mirror. Shadows danced along the walls like flickering spirits.

And then he saw them.

Marisol stood by the window, adjusting a tight red bustier that lifted her already spectacular breasts into an impossible curve. A devil’s tail curled lazily from the small of her back. Her black mini skirt barely covered anything, and the thigh-high fishnets led straight into knee-high boots that made her legs look six feet long.

Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, wearing something that was absolutely not regulation nun attire - a sheer, black version of the habit paired with a short lacy bodysuit that framed her cleavage and ass like a cathedral altar. The cross necklace hanging down between her luscious breasts glinted faintly with each breath she took.

Both of them turned when he entered.

“Finally,” Marisol said, smirking. “We were starting to think you got cold feet.”

Bharath blinked. “I ... I thought we were getting ready at seven?”

Sarah stood, the costume clinging to her like ink. “This is part of getting ready.”

Marisol walked toward him with that slow, rolling gait she only used when she wanted to make him squirm. She stopped just inches from him and slipped her hands up under his shirt. “You’re the one who likes costumes,” she whispered, “so we thought we’d model them properly first.”

Before he could speak, Sarah stepped behind him, her hands sliding down his chest. “We also thought we should make sure you understand how to... access us ... while we’re wearing them.”

Bharath’s breath hitched.

Marisol pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside. Then she cupped her breasts through the corset, pushing them together. “This laces up the front. Pull here.” She guided his hand to the ribbon just above her cleavage. “Not too hard - unless you’re desperate.”

Sarah’s voice purred against his ear. “This unhooks from the side. Just two fingers under the edge. You’ll feel the clasp.”

Bharath swallowed.

Marisol kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’ll get your chance in the club, you know. Make it count.”

“Wait,” Bharath rasped. “We’re really-?”

“Oh yes,” Sarah said. “You didn’t think we dressed like this for strangers, did you?”

Marisol licked her lips. “You’re the only one who touches us now, Bharath. These tits, this heat - it’s all yours.”

Sarah moved in front of him now, slowly lowering herself onto her knees. Her eyes never left his. “You’re going to be our heater tonight.”

“Heater?” he breathed.

Marisol leaned in close, whispering against his ear. “Our warmth. Our tension. Our reminder of who owns this body.”

Sarah ran her nails lightly along his waistband. “We’ll tease all night. Dance on other men’s jealousy. But when we want to feel, we come to you.”

Bharath’s knees buckled as he let out a trembling exhale. “You’re going to get me arrested.”

“No,” Marisol said. “We’re going to get you off. Over and over again. And you’re going to make us scream in some dark corner while everyone else is too drunk to notice.”

Sarah bit his earlobe. “We want you to take us. Both of us. Wherever you can.”

Bharath could barely think. “How am I supposed to survive the night?”

Marisol pressed a kiss to his chest. “You’re not.”

Sarah looked up at him with a wicked smile. “You’re going to lose your mind. And that’s exactly how we want it.”

He let out a breathless laugh, his hands trembling now. “I’m supposed to act normal after this?”

Marisol ran her hands down his chest to his waistband. “You’re supposed to make it through the night without coming until we say so.”

Sarah stood and leaned into him again, soft and dangerous. “And when you do, you better make it messy.”

Marisol kissed him - slow and possessive.

Then Sarah kissed the other side of his mouth.

And then they both stepped back.

“Go finish getting dressed,” Marisol said, smoothing her skirt. “We’ll see you downstairs in ten.”

Sarah winked. “Try not to come in your pants before we get to the club.”

Bharath stood there in stunned silence as they walked out the door, hips swaying in sync, devils and saints made flesh.

And all his.

He whispered to himself, “Aiyo swamy! I’m not going to survive tonight.”

And he didn’t want to.

He couldn’t get up for ten minutes until his blood managed to recirculate to his big head again.

Tyrel’s truck rumbled to a stop across the street from the club, the bass already audible from half a block away - a thudding, hypnotic pulse that made the pavement hum under their feet.

Marisol adjusted her fishnets in the passenger seat, glancing in the side mirror. “If we showed up walking, we’d start a riot.”

Sarah smirked in the back, pulling her sheer veil forward just enough to be suggestive, not innocent. “Or end up on the front page of the campus bulletin under Scandalous Trio Sparks Halloween Panic.”

Camila was fussing with her eyeliner in the visor mirror. “We’d cause accidents, not survive one. It was either Tyrel’s truck or we get arrested.”

LaTasha - in a cropped yellow Braves jersey, gold hoops, and high-waisted jean shorts that could’ve been painted on - popped her gum. “Y’all better have real AC in this place. Or I’m about to sweat this contour straight off.”

Beside her, Nandita adjusted her cardigan over her black halter top and jeans - casual, but striking. Her glasses and delicate silver bangles contrasted with the confident way she walked. She caught Sarah’s eye and grinned nervously.

“Ravi’s really not going to expect this, huh?”

Camila laughed. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

Meanwhile, the boys’ taxi crept into a side lot near the back entrance. The boys stepped out into the warm Atlanta night, already buzzing from music, street noise, and the leftover adrenaline of anticipation.

“I feel like I’m walking into Blade or The Matrix, “ Tyrel muttered, tugging at his black leather vest.

“You look like you lost a bet,” Jorge said, deadpan.

“Watch. LaTasha’s gonna love it.”

“She’s going to arrest you,” Ravi added, adjusting his sleeves.

Then they turned the corner.

And saw them.

A beat of stunned silence hit the boys like a wave.

Tyrel stopped dead. “That’s her?”

LaTasha stood with one hand on her hip, laughing at something Camila had said, her hoops catching the streetlight like halos of fire.

Ravi was speechless. Nandita saw him and smiled - small, self-contained, but unmistakably pleased. She gave him a tiny wave.

Tyrel muttered, “Okay. I take back everything. I’m not ready.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Bharath said, clapping his shoulder. “Just don’t talk about sneakers until you dance once.”

“Same goes for Star Trek,” Jorge added to Ravi. “One word about warp speed, and she’s gone.”

Bharath’s eyes, though, were already scanning the crowd for Marisol and Sarah. He didn’t have to wait long.

They came striding toward him in sync - sin and sanctuary - the crowd parting without even realizing it.

Sarah’s sheer veil fluttered behind her like smoke, and Marisol’s red heels tapped against the concrete like war drums. Their eyes locked on him, heat radiating before they even reached him.

“We’re going in first,” Marisol purred, brushing her fingers under his chin. “You park the car, Mr. Designated Driver.”

Sarah leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “And then come find us.”

They disappeared into the crowd like fire walking into a storm.

Club Zero was packed - sweaty bodies, colored lights, and bass that rattled the ribs. Music pulsed in waves, making the air feel thick with static.

The group entered in pairs, naturally splitting off: Jorge and Camila drifted toward the bar. Ravi and Nandita found a quieter booth off the side, where she asked if he wanted to try dancing “even if you’re bad.” Tyrel and LaTasha were already dancing - or rather, grinding - within seconds, her body moving in ways Tyrel could barely comprehend but was clearly trying to keep up with.

And Bharath?

He found his girls in the middle of the floor, gyrating with each other, already commanding attention.

Marisol’s hands were in the air, her body rolling with the beat, hips hypnotic. Sarah had her arms around Marisol from behind, swaying with her, every movement deliberate - sensual, slow, intentional. They didn’t just dance. They declared territory.

And when they saw him watching, they smiled like wolves spotting a fawn.

He moved toward them.

Marisol reached out and grabbed his collar, yanking him into their orbit.

“I hope you stretched,” she said over the music, mouth grazing his ear.

“Because you’re about to burn,” Sarah whispered, grinding against him from behind.

They surrounded him on the floor, one in front, one behind, their bodies flush with his as the music climbed. His hands moved instinctively - along Marisol’s waist, gripping the swell of her hips - while Sarah pulled his arms back to wrap around herself, trapping them both in a slow, dirty sway.

“You like our costumes baby?” Marisol asked, her lips brushing his.

“I’m barely functioning,” Bharath admitted, gasping.

Sarah turned and kissed him - deep, hungry. Then Marisol took over - teasing, tasting.

No one else touched them.

No one could.

They danced like that for what felt like hours - one song, then two, then three - until Bharath wasn’t sure where he ended and they began. Heat soaked through their clothes. Marisol slid his hands under her corset laces; Sarah guided his grip just right beneath her sheer bodice.

“You’re ours,” Sarah whispered.

“All night,” Marisol finished.

And he was.

{br}

The bass at Club Zero wasn’t just loud - it pulsed, like a heartbeat dialed up to dangerous. Red lights strobed across the crowd, cutting through the fog machine haze and glitter dust with laser precision. Bodies moved in a writhing blur. Costumes ranged from scandalous to supernatural, and the dance floor throbbed with heat and heat-induced sin.

Tyrel was sweating - and not from the heat. His shirt was already unbuttoned halfway, gold chain catching every flash of red and blue, but his pulse was doing double time for a very different reason.

LaTasha.

She was the reason.

She moved like fire set to music, and she knew it.

In a cropped yellow Braves jersey knotted under her bust, high-waisted jean shorts that clung to her like a dare, and hoop earrings big enough to be used as bangles, she didn’t just dance - she owned the floor.

Tyrel had always thought of himself as confident - cocky, even. But standing behind her now, trying to match her rhythm without stepping on her Air Maxes, he felt like a rookie trying to guard Jordan in his prime.

“LaTasha, girl,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a smirk, one brow arched. “You better not be talkin’ to yourself already. We only two songs in.”

“I’m just sayin’, you look like trouble.”

“I am trouble,” she replied, stepping back so her hips brushed against his. “You still here.”

Tyrel swallowed. Loudly.

The track switched - a remix of Monica and Brandy’s The Boy is Mine - and LaTasha dropped with it. Smooth. Controlled. Like gravity answered to her and not the other way around.

Tyrel froze. Literally forgot how to move. He wasn’t used to being on the back foot with women - any women - but LaTasha? She wasn’t playing the same game.

She didn’t flirt to tease. She flirted to see if you could keep up. And he was barely hanging on.

“Loosen up, Vanilla Ice,” she teased in his ear, voice low and electric.

Tyrel laughed - short, nervous - but then caught the look in her eye. Not mockery. Challenge.

Alright, then.

He rolled his shoulders, adjusted his grip on her hips - firm now, grounded - and let himself move with her. Not copying. Not chasing. Just being there.

“That’s better,” she murmured, throwing one arm around his neck and pulling herself closer. Her perfume hit him like a memory - warm amber, citrus, and something sweet like honey and heat.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You tryna start somethin’, girl?”

“I already started it,” she said, grinding back against him with slow, deliberate pressure. “Question is, can you finish?”

Tyrel’s breath caught. His hands gripped her tighter, sliding down her waist, fingers brushing just under the hem of her jersey where warm skin met the waistband of her shorts.

And then she turned, fast and smooth, one hand still around his neck, the other splayed on his chest. She looked up at him - lashes thick, lips glossy, eyes glowing like she knew every thought in his head and had already decided which ones she’d let him act on.

“I don’t dance with just anybody,” she said softly.

“I know,” he said, his voice rough. “You think I ain’t noticed the vultures watchin’ you all night?”

“They can look,” she said. “But they don’t get to touch.”

“Why me?” he asked, voice low, honest. “You could have anybody in here beggin’.”

She studied him - really looked. Her smile softened. “Because you ain’t beggin’. You just here. You ain’t tryna own me. You just vibin’. That’s rare.”

The music shifted again - slower now. Slinky, sticky beat. Something that demanded closeness.

LaTasha didn’t ask. She just stepped into his space, pressed against his chest, and let the music pull them both under.

Tyrel wrapped his arms around her waist and swayed with her, forehead resting briefly against hers.

“You pass the vibe check, sugar,” she said, her voice dipped in honey.

He nearly fainted.

Instead, he kissed her.

It wasn’t wild or rushed - it was soft. Careful. A test.

But when her lips parted and her fingers tangled in his chain, he deepened it. His hand slid up her back, under the jersey, feeling bare skin and the curve of her spine.

Her lips tasted like cherry lip gloss and wicked promises.