by Vivian Ward
It’s fairly common to receive February snow in St. Louis; although, this year it has been unusually cold. According to the weatherman, it hasn’t been this cold in St. Louis since 1905 but I already knew that. Living here since birth, there’s not much that I don’t know about the area.
I know a lot of things, except for why it’s so damn hard to keep good help. No, I’m not talking about help in the office. My family has owned the Kaswell Properties since the early 1940’s.
My grandfather developed our company when he saw the need arise. While some of the lower income families were receiving discounted or free housing from the government, there were many who didn’t qualify for help because of their income. One thing that my grandfather knew was that just because you have the income, it doesn’t mean that you have the credit which is where he came in.
He went to the bank with a business plan. It was simple: he’d take out the max loan they’d give him and he’d purchase as many empty lots of land as he could. After he purchased several parcels, he began building apartments and duplexes on them. He knew how to build most of it from his previous job working construction.
My grandfather hired a small crew of men to assist him and, within a year’s time, he opened his first apartment complex. Using the money wisely, he invested the monthly rental payments that he received into more building materials and began developing more housing.
When my father, David N. Kaswell, handed the company over to me, the city had become overly populated. With too much competition from HUD housing and those who are fortunate enough to secure their home loans, I decided to take the company in a slightly different direction. We still maintain rental properties, but we run the business differently.
I hired a team of real estate agents to work closely with new and existing clients to place them in more permanent housing. Kaswell Properties now purchases homes for those who are on the verge of purchasing their own homes, but don’t quite have their down payment or their credit isn’t up to par. For example, a family might come to us knowing that they want to purchase a home with three beds and two baths in the price range of somewhere around $175,000. This family may or may not have a down payment, and either their credit is just a tad under what the banks would like to see or maybe they don’t have enough time on the job to obtain a loan.
We give the family the option to sign a one, two, or three-year rent-to-own with the option to purchase their dream home at the end of their rental term. Most families choose the three-year option to get a better price on the mortgage while it allows them time to save for a bigger down payment and get their credit to an optimal score. Of course, Kaswell Properties sets part of the monthly rental payment toward their down payment, in addition to whatever the individual may be saving on his or her own.
My problem comes with the other side of business—the dark side. The side that only a select few know about. You see, I keep a positive public image by donating to charities, helping the homeless, and all that jazz, but there’s another part of me that’s much darker than meets the eye.
About five years ago, I took a few of the most prominent contractors that I trusted to do some non-traditional work. One of the clubs in the downtown area closed up shop, and this was where I saw an opportunity to build my very own sex club. But before I could do that, I’d have to set up a legitimate business as a front for the sex club.
After remodeling the entire inside of the club and giving the outside of the building a new facelift, I was finally able to open up a brand new bar and restaurant. It took my team about a year to complete, but this also allowed them to begin on the second project—the main project—that I’d had my sites set on since the moment I purchased the property.
I named the new club The Kaswell Cocktail Lounge and turned it into an upscale bar where the wealthiest members of St. Louis can come to let their hair down. Of course, The Kaswell Cocktail Lounge was just a cover up for what my contractors were building beneath it. This secret project was my baby and while it was being built, I often spent hours each day overseeing the construction.
Just before it was finished, I let a long-time friend in on it knowing that I’d need a bit of help running it. Tyler Stepford is an influential business man in the Metro area and, just like me, has quite a dark side of his own. Well, I’d call his more of a kink, but we’re two peas in a pod, nonetheless. We enjoy many of the same things; although, I probably take things a bit too far between the two of us. We met at a charity event long before my father passed away and became good friends.
Neither of us had a clue what kind of shit the other was into until there was a mix up with the escort service we both frequented. Back in the day, we were using a local company who provided rooms along with ‘entertainment’. Most called it a modern day brothel, and the truth of the matter is that’s exactly what it was. I have a thing for call girls, prostitutes, hookers, whatever you want to call them. Whores have always been my favorite.
They’d overbooked the presidential suite I usually requested and without realizing it, they handed me the key not knowing that it was still occupied. You can imagine my surprise after I swiped my card and entered the room to see one of my favorite girls spread eagle, ankles and wrists bound to the bedposts, with him flogging the hell out of her pussy and thighs.
She gasped when she looked over and saw me, which caused him to look in my direction. Seeing her in that position wasn’t the shocking part. Hell, if anything, it had turned me on and gave me a few ideas to try with her. It was when he turned around and I saw him wearing a strap-on that I was stunned.
I mean, part of me was astonished to see Tyler with two cocks but the other part found it hysterical. We were always part of the good ol’ boys club at local charity events and I never had him pegged for being into that kind of kinky shit. I wanted to leave—I tried to leave—but damn if my eyes weren’t glued to the double dicks protruding from his groin region.
After ogling for a good 45 seconds, I burst into laughter before shutting the door. Within minutes, he was dressed and in the lobby, trying to explain himself.
“Tyler,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder with the widest grin my face could contain. “I don’t give a shit what you’re into but what I saw back there? I can never unsee,” I doubled over, holding my stomach as my shoulders shook.
Maybe it was cruel to laugh at him considering that we were both in the same place for the same reason—to fulfill a need—but the flabbergasted expression he donned when I saw him was comical.
“She likes DP’s,” he tried to justify what I’d seen but I was too busy still laughing at the site of both of his cocks—the real one and the fake one—flopping around as his body swung toward the open door. “Colton,” he said with his mouth pursed. “You can’t say anything—,”
“Don’t worry,” I said, wiping a tear away from my eye. My gut hurt from laughing so hard. “I would never.”
As I waited for the staff to sanitize the room for me, I realized that he could just as easily say that he saw me in that type of establishment, so we made a pact that we’d never tell another soul about either of our …extracurricular activities from that day on.
The two of us quickly became close and I knew that I had to let him in on my little secret, but I waited until it was nearly complete because I preferred not to have any input on what someone else thought my dream should be. When I led him through The Kaswell Cocktail Lounge, he wasn’t impressed.
“You dragged me through rush hour traffic to show me this? It looks like most other lounges,” he said, annoyed with me and ready to go home.
“Yeah, but do most other lounges have this?” I asked, leading him to the steps. “Follow me.” As we made our descent to the basement and I flicked on the light, he was in complete awe.
“What is this place?” he asked, taking it all in.
It didn’t look like much at the time since it was basically a shell of what was to come. Stepping in front of him, I began giving him a tour.
The long hallway led to many private bedrooms where patrons could do whatever they please behind closed doors.
Have a Dom/sub fantasy? It’s a cinch.
Have a DDLG fantasy? Easy peasy.
Have a bondage fantasy? Piece of cake.
Into voyeurism? Aren’t most of us?
Into cosplay? We can handle that, too.
Want something darker? No problem.
At Club Kaswell, all of your fantasies can come true—as long as they’re legal. We don’t allow prostitution or payment for sex. All of our members are also of age. Nobody under 21 steps foot inside. Ever.
“These,” I said, waving my hand in front of all the different rooms, “are for those who like privacy.”
A look of understanding and recognition registered on Tyler’s face. He knew exactly what we were standing in; he just didn’t know much about it.
Looking forward, I continued walking straight ahead of us. “And this,” I stopped in a much larger room than the private rooms, “is what I like to call the viewing room.”
Tyler let this sink in for a moment as we peered into quite an enormous room that was completely empty.
“Wait,” he said. “Is this what I think it is?” His face lit up like Christmas morning. “Do we have our very own voyeur room?”
“Not only that,” I grinned and tapped on the glass. “But this is a two-way mirror so the people in the other room can never see who—or how many people—may be watching them. They can let their fantasies run wild.”
If they want a hundred spectators, they’ve got it. If they’re new and hope only a single person is watching, they can imagine that, too. If they’re seasoned like Tyler and me and hope that fifteen men have their cocks out jerking it to every movement they make, let them think that’s exactly who’s watching.
“This is genius!” Tyler said to me. “What’s the name of it going to be?”
Smiling, I replied, “Club Kaswell.”
Four years later, and I still think the club is the best thing that I’ve ever come up with. The only problem is finding someone to manage the club since my current manager is out on maternity leave and will be for quite some time.
Normal protocol is typically two to three months, but at Club Kaswell, I put them on paid leave as soon as they begin to show. I could never put one of my pregnant employees at risk if things should get out of hand, and you never know who might be sexually attracted to pregnant women and try to proposition them to satisfy their own urges.
Through the frosted glass of my window, I can see a carriage ride taking place along the riverfront and I can’t help but think of the upcoming Valentine’s dinner that we’re treating our members to. It’s one of the very select holidays that we celebrate in Club Kaswell and it’s the only day of the year that we go balls to the wall decked out, all in the name of love. Aside from New Year’s Eve, it’s no surprise that it’s one of the biggest days of the year.
With Angela out for the next six to seven months, Tyler and I have been handling things on our own while trying to come up with someone to take her place. It’s not an easy task because we need someone with a keen eye to take care of inventory, someone who can dish out orders to get things done, and someone who the men will find aesthetically pleasing since this ideal candidate will be here close full-time and dealing with the customers on a regular basis.
It’s a shame Angela got knocked up, but I can certainly understand how and why. She’s a tall, slender redheaded dominatrix with tits that would make any man drop to his knees. Well, any man except for me. I always have to be in control—in and out of the bedroom—and would never allow a woman to have that much power over me. Aside from her flawless pale skin and bright green eyes, she has a smooth southern drawl that she developed from her hometown of Mississippi.
With just under two weeks to go, we have to start planning for Valentine’s Day. Tyler is handling the food and liquor order while I take care of decorations and accommodations. I cheated by calling Angela to see what we’d need for the event. It’s something that Tyler would never think to do in a million years, but I like taking the easy way out.
I’d never have thought it’d be difficult to order table cloths, flowers, and balloons, but it is when you don’t know what you’re doing. Luckily, I got Angela to agree to make gift bags with sweets for each of the members. There’s no way I’d do it right and her OCD wouldn’t allow me to try.
A slight knock at the door startles me from watching the horse trotting out of existence. “Mr. Kaswell?”
“Yes, Nancy,” I say to my secretary as she makes her way into my office.
“I didn’t mean to bother you, but I’ve gotten all of the files for the week finished. Would you like me to go ahead and file them or would you like them on your desk?”
She has an armful of manilla envelopes and it looks like she may drop them any second, so I take them from her. “Are all of the inspections complete?” I ask.
“Yes, sir,” she says, not willing to hand them over.
“Let’s set some of these down,” I insist, looking at my watch. “You can file them on Monday. I didn’t realize it was already five after.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I was so wrapped up in trying to finish entering them all in the computer that I lost track of time.”
“Well, let’s get out of here,” I say to her, setting the files on my desk.
“Are you sure?” she asks again.
“I’m sure. Come, let’s go. I have someplace I need to go,” I say, pulling my coat onto my shoulder. “And I don’t want to be late.”
“Oh,” she says, scurrying out of my office. “Yes, sir. Have a good weekend, Mr. Kaswell.”
“You too, Nancy,” I say to her as we take the elevator down to the lobby.
The last thing I want to do is tell her that I’m heading to a floral shop because then she’ll ask if I’m dating someone. That’s one thing that Colton Kaswell doesn’t do and I’m not about to play twenty questions about who the flowers are for.
Chapter 2
Ally
Working in a floral shop isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, but I don’t mind spending time with my best friend while I make a few bucks. Her family owns the place and because of Valentine’s Day, they need some extra help. Even though I’m busy working on my journalism internship as my day job, I couldn’t say no when she asked if I could cover evenings with her for the next couple of weeks. We’ve been inseparable since seventh grade and my first job was working for her parents.
“That’ll be $38.55,” I say to the man across the counter as I ring up his order of long-stemmed red roses. Roses are a classic around here this time of year. You can tell a lot about a man from the way he orders flowers.
Most men who are completely clueless waltz in here, pretending to know what to buy and they all go for the same thing: roses. I know it’s traditional for a husband to give his wife roses for Valentine’s Day, but it doesn’t have to be if you know what your woman likes.
Take Mr. Lehman, for example. He and his wife have been married for almost 25 years. That man has been in here every year to order his wife daisies with baby’s breaths because those are her favorite. You’d never catch Mr. Lehman ordering her anything but those flowers because he knows his other half so well. I’ve met her a few times and she’d be insulted if he showed up with a bouquet of roses for her. She’d think he forgot what she liked.
There’s also Mr. Harding who comes here for his wife’s birthday, their anniversary, and other special holidays. This man impresses us each time he visits the shop. His wife has quite a green thumb and plants are her life, so he rarely orders her flowers. Instead, he purchases various types of plants that his wife doesn’t have. We’ve not figured out how he knows what she does or doesn’t have because we all know where they live, and their yard is very exotic to say the least. My point is, that man pays attention and knows his wife inside and out.
“Almost forty bucks for flo
wers?” he complains, removing his credit card from his wallet. “Man, I’m in the wrong business. Did you charge me for that card?” He points at the small rectangular card with a tiny, ‘I love you,’ scribbled on it above his signature.
“No, sir, those come free with every order,” I reply. I hate when Valentine’s Day approaches. The floral shop gets so busy and it brings all of the crazies out in full force. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t wear a tinfoil hat when I come to deal with some of these people.
I can’t wait until I finish my internship and I get my big break. I’ll finally be able to pursue my dream of being a journalist and report on some of the biggest stories. Hopefully, everyone will know my name sooner rather than later. Writing has always been my passion. I’d say it was my first love. Actually, it’s my only love because I’ve never really had a boyfriend.
I mean, sure, I’ve dated a few boys here and there but it’s never been anything serious. When my nose wasn’t buried in books, it was buried in my journal that I carried around and wrote in every day.
Oh, what I wouldn’t do to write for one of the biggest media conglomerates out there! There’s nothing better than a juicy story spilling secrets, exposing cover-ups, or being the first to deliver big news. I’d love to be the one who could crack a story wide open and draw major attention to those headlines.
Except there’s one problem: I hate being in the spotlight. I’ve never really felt comfortable in my own skin because I’ve always thought that I’m a bit on the awkward side. I’m not weird, or socially awkward or anything like that. I’ve always been able to make plenty of friends once I get used to people but when I’m around others, I feel pressure to act or look a certain way. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt that others look at me through a microscope and think that they can see all of my flaws and imperfections.
Of course, I know this isn’t true but I can’t help but feel that way. Maybe that’s why I’ve always written so much. I think I feel more comfortable writing rather than talking. All of my words are carefully edited before I share them, which prevents others from seeing my errors and mistakes.