Filthy [The Need for Release]

 

The Need for Release

 

Belgrade, Serbia.

Six years ago.

 

A real man needed release.

A man who denied himself pleasure was either a saint or a fool, and Lazar had never been accused of being either.

Lazar reached into his desk’s bottom drawer and found the red button within the inner panel. Nikola had installed this during the first month of his special arrangement. It was a direct signal to a light on Dayo's nightstand.

One press meant Get ready. I'm here.

Next, he pulled out the small glass bottle of warming lube he kept there, set it beside the rakija, and opened his laptop.

Lazar uncapped the rakija—Serbian brandy, fruit-fermented, the drink his father had poured for any hard night and every harder morning.

Tonight, he yearned for its comfort.

Lazar poured a glass for him and then a single drop of rakija onto the polished marble floor. “For the dead.”

The screen blinked and came to life. Next the view showed Dayo naked and across rumpled white sheets, waiting for him.

Mmmm.

His cock throbbed in his pants.

Dayo adjusted against the pillow—unhurried, completely at ease in her own skin.

He remembered the first time he'd seen her.

It had been in a jazz club in Paris. The kind with no sign on the door and a list that certain men spent years trying to get onto.

Lazar had owned a stake in it for four years without once visiting. That night he'd made an exception for reasons he no longer remembered, and he'd walked in ten minutes before she took the stage.

Dayo was already at the mic when he found his seat, and he went still. The stage light caught her like it had been designed for her specifically—that deep brown skin, the curve of her hips in a red dress that knew exactly what it was doing, those long braids framing her body.

Although she clearly looked to be in her 20s, he knew she was not. He clocked that immediately, just from the way she stood and gazed out at the crowd like a woman who had stopped performing for rooms and started commanding them.

There was a difference.

Most men never learned to see it.

He guessed she was in her early forties.

Her voice quieted his soul in a way that money and fear usually couldn't. Men who ordered thousand-euro bottles without looking at the price sat completely still. She moved through the standards like she'd lived inside every lyric, that Lagos-London accent dissolving into a lushness that went straight to the blood.

His body vibrated with every note she sang.

After her performance, he'd sent a bottle to her dressing room—Krug, 1978—and a note with nothing on it but a number.

She hadn't called for three days.

He'd respected that.

When she did call, he asked her age. To his utter shock, she said she was 62.

Older than his mother would have been, had she still been alive. Old enough to have pulled him into the world in another life. The wrongness of it didn't cool his blood, it moved through him like a second pulse, low and insistent, because a woman who had been alive longer than his entire criminal career could make him feel like the least powerful person in her presence.

He had never once wanted to be that undone by anyone younger.

They hadn't finished becoming yet.

And there Dayo was, voice simmering with smoke and sex, body still ripe for pleasure.

Without any hesitation, he  made his offer directly. He would put her in a new home in London with her own personal recording studio, built to whatever specification she wanted. He didn’t want her singing in a room she didn't own again.

But he would also want a camera setup in her new bedroom, professional grade, because Lazar Vukić did not watch women in bad lighting. Italian sheets.

And she would perform for himself.

Camera only.

That was his rule and the wall he'd built around his heart.

Katarina had taught him what happened when he let a woman into his life. He would not repeat that lesson.

She'd been quiet for a long moment and then she finally spoke, "I want final say on the studio equipment and—"

“Whatever you want, you will get. My man is sending you a card. The only limit is your imagination.”

“I will buy my family things too.”

“Buy them anything.”

“I will have lovers.”

He smiled. “Have all you want, but none will be in that bedroom.”

Dayo flew to London the next day and moved into her new place, and for all these years this agreement had been more than enough.

He drank her in.

God had taken extra time with Dayo.

Sixty-two years old and every single one of those years had settled into her body like a gift—the fullness of her supple breasts, the deep curve of her hips, the softness of her belly that younger women starved themselves to avoid and she wore like a woman who had long since stopped apologizing for being built for pleasure.

Her deep brown skin glowed in the studio lighting without a line it hadn't earned and worn beautifully.

Smooth where it mattered.

Rich everywhere else.

She possessed the particular luminescence of a Black woman whose skin had decided aging was optional.

His cock throbbed with a want that had nothing polite in it.

She looked directly at the camera, and in her eyes was all confidence and pure intelligence. She understood her power and had never once been embarrassed by it.

Mmmm.

Those long black braids spilled across the pillow and over her shoulders.

"Lazar." That Lagos-London accent wrapped around his name and wouldn’t let go. "I've been waiting."

"I see that." He leaned back in the chair and poured himself a glass of the rakija. "Touch your breasts for me, Dayo. Both hands."

She obeyed immediately, her full dark-tipped breasts filling her palms, her head falling back as she squeezed. Her low moan traveled through the speakers and settled at the base of his spine.

She pinched her nipples and gasped. "I want to be your good girl tonight."

"You're already my good girl, Dayo." He reached for the glass of rakija and tapped the glass twice against the desk. It was an old Balkan habit, a silent toast to ghosts and men who didn't survive long enough to drink with him.

The first sip hit the back of his throat like a slow fire—plum-dark and sharp, the particular burn of Serbian brandy that had no interest in being smooth. It tasted like his father's kitchen and every hard thing he'd ever had to metabolize.

He held it on his tongue a moment before he swallowed. "Spread your thighs. Let me see your beautiful pussy."

Dayo spread slowly, knowing exactly what the reveal did to him. The sound her pussy made was wet, greedy, and completely unashamed.

"God." He exhaled through his nose and set the glass down. "Play with that pussy. Slowly."

"Like this?"

"Yes. Two fingers. Show me how you open."

Her fingers moved between her thighs and her back arched off the sheets. "Lazar. Oh, it's so wet for you."

"I know."

Twelve hundred kilometers between them—her in the London flat he owned, him in the Serbian mansion that owned him—and still she was the closest thing to warmth in the building.

He loosened his belt. "Get the new dildo out."

She reached beside her and held it up for the camera first—letting him see it, letting him understand the sheer, unapologetic size of what she was about to take.

It wasn't silicone.

It was hand-poured crystal glass, custom-blown by an artisan in Murano whose waiting list ran three years—Lazar had paid to skip it.

The shaft was clear as water with a core of deep cobalt blue that gleamed in the light when she moved it, every vein and ridge cast directly into the glass itself, raised and designed to drag against every inner wall on the way in and the way out with maximum pleasure.

The head was flared and full, a thick mushroomed crown built to stretch and catch, and a 24-karat gold base sat heavy as a paperweight at the bottom.

A single black diamond flush-set at the crown.

"You always send me the most beautiful things." She turned it. "This one made me cry when I opened the box."

Perfect.

The camera caught everything in 4K—his specification, his equipment, installed by his man in a single afternoon while Dayo was still in Paris packing a single suitcase because he'd told her to leave everything else behind. He would replace it all with better things, and he did.

She kissed the tip. "This one always makes me think of you."

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Mmmm.” Lazar palmed himself through his pants, the fabric was suddenly too tight and rough against his aching length. "Show me how you get it ready for that greedy little pussy."

A wicked smile spread across her face as she reached for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. Clear, slick, expensive stuff that came in a heavy glass pump.

She’d told him once that it smelled like vanilla laced with musk, so every time he saw it, he smelled that fragrance too.

She depressed the pump once, twice, letting a thick, glistening rope coil into her palm. “You didn’t visit me here last week or the week before.”

“I was busy.”

“Never get too busy for Dayo.”

He smirked. “Mmm.”

Dayo turned the dildo in her hand, holding the shaft upright so he could watch every second. She drizzled the lube over the head first, letting it slide down in slow, syrupy trails that followed the raised veins, coating them until the crystal shimmered.

“When will you visit in person, Lazar?”

He licked his lips. “You know our rule.”

“I hoped that eventually after all this time. . .our rule would be broken.” Her fingers wrapped around the base, stroking upward in long, firm pulls—spreading the slickness evenly, twisting slightly at the crown to work it into every groove. “Dayo gets lonely.”

“Then, Dayo should get friends.”

“I tried that.” She pouted. “None compare to you.”

He looked at her beautiful face—really looked, the way he'd stopped letting himself do. Then, the pang of heartache returned and he pushed it away.

No. Not for her. Not for anyone else.

This moment with Dayo was safe because she was contained. A screen. A signal. A woman he'd never have to kill and bury.

He told himself this was enough.

Most nights it was.

Dayo continued to stroke the dildo.

The lube made soft, slippery sounds with each glide, and she added more, generous, until it dripped from the tip in heavy drops that landed on her inner thigh and slid toward her already drenched folds.

She bit her lower lip with her eyes locked on the camera. She angled it closer, letting the lens catch the way her fingers glided effortlessly, the lube stringing between her knuckles.

Lazar exhaled roughly. "Coat your pussy too. I want to see it glisten before you take it."

Dayo obeyed without hesitation. She pumped another generous dollop into her palm, then reached between her spread thighs. Two fingers parted her swollen lips, exposing the slick, dark pink inside that pulsed visibly with need.

“Such a good girl.”

She smeared the lube over her clit first—slow circles that made her hips jerk—then lower, pushing slick fingers just inside herself, coating her entrance until it shone.

The wet sounds were louder now, unmistakable: her arousal mixing with the lube, creating something even silkier, even hungrier.

“Put it inside, Dayo.”

She brought the dildo down, rubbing the slick head along her slit—up and down, teasing her entrance, nudging her clit until she whimpered. "Lazar. . .it's so thick. I can already feel how it's going to stretch me."

His voice went rough. "Take it slow. Let me watch every inch disappear."

Dayo pressed the head against her opening, breath hitching as the dildo’s broad crown parted her.

“Lazar. . .” She rocked gently, working it in by fractions—her lips stretching taut around the girth, inner walls yielding with a soft, wet sound. A low, throaty moan spilled from her as the first thick ridge popped past her entrance, the lube making the slide obscenely smooth yet still intense enough to make her thighs tremble.

A dark groan left him.

"Oh god. It's opening me." She tipped her head back. Those braids slid across her sweat-damp skin.

“Deeper, Dayo.”

She shivered, letting her body adjust for a few seconds, and then sank another inch and another until half the huge length was buried.

Undoing the top button to his pants, Lazar leaned forward and loved how her pussy lips hugged the veined shaft.

Yes.

Lazar unzipped his pants and freed himself from the tight confinement of the fabric. His cock sprang heavy into his hand—thick, long, and already rigid with the slow, dangerous arousal that built in him like pressure behind a dam.

And pierced.

A dark gold bar ran vertically through the crown of him—an apadravya driven straight through the thick head years ago when pain had still amused him. The metal shimmered in the warm lamplight as he shifted in his chair.

At each end of the bar sat two small sculpted serpent heads, forged in deep Serbian gold. Their tiny mouths were open, fangs bared, the scales etched so precisely. . .most women froze the first time they saw it.

Fear.

Curiosity.

Desire.

It all crashed within their eyes and they always found the menacing pleasure of the piercing too, because when he moved, the serpents moved with him, guarding the crown and claiming their pussy.

Lazar wrapped his hand around the thick base, his thumb brushing the cool metal where the lower serpent rested beneath the head.

The contact sent electric lust zipping through him.

Across the screen, Dayo was pushing the toy deeper into herself, her beautiful face flushed, her body stretching slowly around the impossible size.

“Yes, Dayo.” Lazar watched. “Such a good girl.”

He poured the warming lube down the length of his cock.

The liquid spread across the shaft, pooling briefly around the golden serpent heads before sliding down his grip.

The warmth ignited seconds later, a slow-building fire that licked from base to tip, making the gold serpents gleam hotter against his flushed skin. He groaned low, thumb circling the sensitive underside where the bar pierced through, the metal conducting the heat straight into his core until every stroke felt like sinking into molten silk.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. "Deeper, Dayo. All the way. Show me how much your pussy can take."

She did—sinking down inch by glistening inch until her ass met the sheets and the toy was fully seated, stretching her wide, the base flush against her soaked skin. Her inner muscles clenched visibly around it, a ripple he could see even through the camera, and she let out a long, shuddering moan that vibrated straight through the speakers.

“How does it feel, Dayo?”

"Fuck. . .my pussy is so full." She bit her bottom lip. "It feels so good. I wish it were you. I wish it were your cock—"

"Move it."

She began to work it in and out, her hips rolling, her free hand finding her clit, her moans now continuous and loud—filling the office, traveling through the speakers and climbing the walls of the dark room.

He used both of his big hands on his huge cock, working the massive length so that the warmth moved with every stroke.

"Oh." On screen, Dayo had stopped moving entirely and her eyes locked on his hands.

The dildo forgotten.

"Lazar." Her voice had dropped an octave. "Let me see. . .Please. Hold it up for me."

He angled his cock toward the camera and held himself out—both fists, stacked, the head flushed and swollen and already beading at the tip. A thread of pre-cum stretched from the crown and dripped over the serpent heads.

Dayo made a sound that had nothing to do with performance and all to do with pent-up desire. “God help me.”

Her pupils blew wide as her breath stuttered. “Ọlọ́run, jọ̀wọ́ fún mi ní ohun tí ó jẹ́ ti temi.”

Lazar blinked, wondering what she had said in Yoruba.

She watched the serpents shift with each slow pump of his fist—the tiny fangs catching light like they were ready to bite.

A fresh gush of wetness spilled out of her pussy and coated the dildo still buried in her.

“Enough.” A devilish smirk hit him. “Now go back to the dildo.”

She frowned. "Do you know what I would do if I was in that room right now? I would crawl across that desk. I wouldn't even wait for you to ask."

Her hips rolled involuntarily. "I want to taste that. I want to feel that heat on my tongue before you push it down my throat."

His grip tightened. “Dayo—”

"Look how hard you are for me." She pressed two fingers against her clit. “I shouldn’t say all of this. I’m old enough to know better.”

He licked his lips.

“But stop denying us both.” Her breath turned ragged. "That cock stays in my head. Every lover I take—every single one—I close my eyes and I think of you. Those tattooed muscles. Your hands. Your size. Those serpents."

A moan broke through. "Give me what I want, Lazar. Come to London. One night. One time. Break the rule just once—"

"Move the dildo, Dayo."

She whimpered. Her hips snapped forward.

“Good girl.” He stroked himself through the heat and said nothing else.

She worked the dildo, eyes still on him, but he knew her mind was somewhere else entirely.

"You keep showing me it." Her voice came out wrecked, half moan, half complaint. "Every time. You put it on that camera and I have to watch your hands on it and I—"

“Dayo.” He licked his lips. “Enough.”

“Enough? Let’s talk about that word.” She exhaled hard through her nose and stopped moving the dildo. "For years I told myself the money and flat was enough. The recording studio was enough. All of it. . .enough."

He frowned.

"It is not enough, Lazar. I want your cock inside me. I want to feel the real thickness of you. I want to know what that heat feels like from the inside—"

"The distance is fine."

"The distance is not fine." Her voice cracked at the edges. "Come to London. One time. Walk through that door one time and I swear I will never ask again—"

"Dayo."

Just her name.

Flat.

Final.

The tone he used right before pulling the trigger.

She felt it. Her mouth pressed into a pout, full and sullen. Her brows pulled together. She looked away from the camera for exactly three seconds—the only form of protest she had left —then looked back. "I’m sorry."

She returned to fucking herself with the dildo.

Then the door opened.

No knock.

Bright light cut across the dark office and stopped at his chair.

Lazar didn't close the laptop or reach for his guns.

But, Lazar's hands did stop on his cock as he glanced over his shoulder, knowing exactly who had interrupted this moment.

There was only one person who ever walked through that door uninvited.

His son.