Silver Lining in the Viaduct
nomaorisclub
New Member
- Aug 2, 2025
- 29
- 19
- 18
There are days when you wake up feeling invincible. Like the cards are stacked in your favour, the deck is soft, and the world just might fold to your charm. Thursday wasn’t one of those days. It was grey, Auckland-style. Rain that can’t commit, sky like wet cardboard. I’d been running bad at life, not poker, that’s always been solid, just… life. Needed a reset. Not the kind that comes from meditation or protein smoothies. The kind that goes by the name Silver.
Private provider. Viaduct apartment. No receptionist, no clock-watching. Just her. Just me. That’s the kind of action I like.
I arrive. The building screams old money and new sex. Elevator ride up feels like a trip into a different league. The door opens, and there she is — Silver. Tall, sleek, hair cascading like a Bond girl who’s also your therapist and maybe your next bad decision. A black silk robe barely tied, legs for days, eyes that say “I’ve seen your kind before, but I might make an exception.”
The apartment is warm, lit like a film set, scented candles, low music, and a table positioned in front of massive windows like a stage built for sin. She gestures to the bathroom. I strip and shower like a man preparing for confession.
When I return, Silver has dropped the robe. She’s in a black lace ensemble that’s doing God’s work. We exchange pleasantries, she pours the oil, and the massage begins.
Now, I’ve had massages in Macau penthouses, Rio hotel suites, and yes, even that weird place in Prague with the twins. But this… this was something else. Her hands don’t just glide, they read. Pressure, rhythm, intent. Every stroke is a tell, and I’m calling all of it. She’s on me, beside me, whispering jokes, slipping her fingers down just far enough to fog my vision. Then:
“Turn over, baby.”
Boom. Checkmate.
The finish is… well, let’s just say if this were a tournament, I’d be heads up with God. She brings me over that edge with a skill that should qualify as art, medicine, or both. I come undone, embarrassingly loud and grateful.
Afterward, we lie there. I’m sipping water like it’s post-fight recovery, and she’s curled next to me asking about my poker life. I tell her about the circuit, Vegas, Barcelona, the Crown in Melbourne. She’s fascinated. Somewhere between flush and afterglow, she asks if she could tag along sometime.
“I’d wear something sheer and stand behind you like your good luck charm,” she says, smiling.
I tell her she’d be a distraction. She tells me that’s the idea.
We talk about Paris in the winter. Late-night room service in Caesar’s Palace. She tells me she likes the idea of being flown in just for a night. I tell her I do that sort of thing.
She laughs. Says she’s in love. I don’t disagree.
Eventually, I shower again, fresh towel, naturally, tip like a gentleman whose net worth just spiked, and she walks me to the door wearing nothing but a wicked grin. We both know this isn’t a one-time thing.
I walk back into the Auckland drizzle and into my Tesla with the swagger of a man who just got lucky, in every sense. Silver wasn’t just a detour. She was a goddamn jackpot.
Private provider. Viaduct apartment. No receptionist, no clock-watching. Just her. Just me. That’s the kind of action I like.
I arrive. The building screams old money and new sex. Elevator ride up feels like a trip into a different league. The door opens, and there she is — Silver. Tall, sleek, hair cascading like a Bond girl who’s also your therapist and maybe your next bad decision. A black silk robe barely tied, legs for days, eyes that say “I’ve seen your kind before, but I might make an exception.”
The apartment is warm, lit like a film set, scented candles, low music, and a table positioned in front of massive windows like a stage built for sin. She gestures to the bathroom. I strip and shower like a man preparing for confession.
When I return, Silver has dropped the robe. She’s in a black lace ensemble that’s doing God’s work. We exchange pleasantries, she pours the oil, and the massage begins.
Now, I’ve had massages in Macau penthouses, Rio hotel suites, and yes, even that weird place in Prague with the twins. But this… this was something else. Her hands don’t just glide, they read. Pressure, rhythm, intent. Every stroke is a tell, and I’m calling all of it. She’s on me, beside me, whispering jokes, slipping her fingers down just far enough to fog my vision. Then:
“Turn over, baby.”
Boom. Checkmate.
The finish is… well, let’s just say if this were a tournament, I’d be heads up with God. She brings me over that edge with a skill that should qualify as art, medicine, or both. I come undone, embarrassingly loud and grateful.
Afterward, we lie there. I’m sipping water like it’s post-fight recovery, and she’s curled next to me asking about my poker life. I tell her about the circuit, Vegas, Barcelona, the Crown in Melbourne. She’s fascinated. Somewhere between flush and afterglow, she asks if she could tag along sometime.
“I’d wear something sheer and stand behind you like your good luck charm,” she says, smiling.
I tell her she’d be a distraction. She tells me that’s the idea.
We talk about Paris in the winter. Late-night room service in Caesar’s Palace. She tells me she likes the idea of being flown in just for a night. I tell her I do that sort of thing.
She laughs. Says she’s in love. I don’t disagree.
Eventually, I shower again, fresh towel, naturally, tip like a gentleman whose net worth just spiked, and she walks me to the door wearing nothing but a wicked grin. We both know this isn’t a one-time thing.
I walk back into the Auckland drizzle and into my Tesla with the swagger of a man who just got lucky, in every sense. Silver wasn’t just a detour. She was a goddamn jackpot.
. But well written, enjoyable fiction.
Purely for consistency purposes of course,,,
