Your Night is Mine

Fireworks burst in the night sky overhead and a menagerie of costumed men and women push past me on the crowded street. The inebriated celebrants shy away and let me pass when I glare them down with my practiced ‘Do Not Fuck With Me’ face. It takes quite a lot of practice to get it right when you’re a five-foot-six woman. I scan the crowd and regain sight of you as you turn down a wide stairway and into an underground concourse. My lips can’t help but curl up in a smile.

Your night was mine the moment you decided to cheat in my casino. I may not own the glittering gaming halls of the Peixe Voador, but as a security consultant, it’s part of my job to consider the casino’s possessions my own. At least when a swindler tries to take them from me.

It’s lucky for you, in a way, that it was just me watching the camera feed at table fifteen when you palmed the dice and threw your own on a big bet. Your plan was obvious. Win one big bet and then fuck off into the impossible nighttime revelry of Carnival. Loaded dice get noticed quickly. With the press of a button I sent a silent alert to the table dealer to cycle the dice and play it cool. I was impressed by your balls, as you stayed put with your pile of chips, maybe to lose a few small bets to cover your ass. I zoomed the camera in. Your tight, juicy ass. You were dressed as any young man out for fun, a black shirt open down the front showing off your shaved, tan chest, and black pants. My plan for your evening formed quickly, and I felt a quiver between my legs.

Just as I predicted, three losing bets later you made a pouty show of disappointment and slipped away from the table with your mountain of coins. I observed with mirth as you cashed out at the cage with your eyes darting around, betraying your guilt. Some might say to get you before you changed your chips, but I know that Peixe Voador chips are traded at near face value on the street, and besides, I had other plans. Slinging my nylon security messenger bag over my shoulder I let the casino staff know I was going to head out and handle a situation.

Stepping out onto the crowded street I saw you smoothly mix in with the crowd, a fattened leather case hanging off one shoulder, but you made a mistake heading into that concourse.

As I step down into the concrete throughway the sounds of the street quickly become muted and distant. Before me, the long underground concourse stretches forward, a fifty-foot wide concrete paving-stone path. The path is bisected by a line of columns, each about four feet in diameter, supporting the middle of the ceiling all the way down the concourse. The way is lined on the south side with boutique shops. The shops are closed at this hour, and the lights on that side of the path are shut off, with only a few logo displays and emergency exit signs still glowing. The north side is brightly lit for after-hours foot traffic.

There are few people walking the concourse at the moment, however. Two aged women in bright and fluffy frocks, a security man in his brown shirt with gold piping, two young men holding a third young man upright after a little too much good cheer. Far too much excitement in the height of the celebration to be down here.

My heels click-clack pointedly as I walk with purpose across the smooth paving stones. I see you conspicuously strolling at a leisurely pace about a hundred yards down the concourse as the security man passes by. My tight black pinstripe pantsuit swishes with my accelerated gait. I notice you’re not carrying your leather case. Perhaps you’ve stashed it, perhaps you’re worried. You’re right to be worried.

A loud beep-beep issues from the security man’s radio and a string of garbled Portuguese flows from it. The man stops and slowly turns around in place, casting his eyes about while speaking into the radio. I notice you hesitate, then keep walking. The security man’s radio barks and the man turns around and begins quickly jogging in your direction. I smile inwardly as you nearly dive into the darkness of the closed shopping area to avoid him. The security man turns his head and excuses himself as he never breaks pace passing you on his way to the other end of the concourse.

As I approach, you are sitting in the dark on a concrete bench a few feet away from the lighted path.

I sit down, my suit pants stretching around my ample ass.

“Bad night?” I ask in my limited Portuguese.

You seem startled at first, but smile at me and answer in heavily accented English, “Ah, yes, very rough night.”

I smile right back and switch to English, “I believe it might be about to get worse. There is security at both ends of this concourse,” I bluff, “Private security. And I am private security at the Peixe Voador. We have you on camera.”

Your eyes widen and your head turns to peer at the security man still jogging away down the path. I can sense you’re a flight risk.

“Private security. The police have not been called. I believe we can handle this right here,” I speak as my eyes drill into yours and I slide my ass toward you on the glossy smooth bench to place a firm hand on your forearm, “We will simply require our money back. As you’ll never be stepping into our casino again, we have no problem letting you go as you’ll only be stealing from our competition.”

Your arm tenses in my grip but you remain still. I lean close, wrap my other arm around your back to clasp my hand around your free arm, and breathily whisper in your ear, “Trust me. It’s better this way.”

You sigh and I can feel your body slowly relax. You nod your head, haltingly.

“Good. Now we’ll have to take this step by step, but don’t worry, you’ll be free to go when we finish,” I explain as I pull your arms behind you and smoothly pull my short handcuffs from the security bag, “First things first, I need to search you, understand?”

“Yes,” you say, your eyes forward and resigned as I cuff your hands behind your back.