by Grant, Livia
Matthew grinned. “It’s about to get real, Morrow. You ready?”
“No.”
Anson slid his glass to the center of the table, eyes on the impending unknown disaster across the club. He let out a breath.
He’s right. It’s all set up for you. All you have to do is play.
When he rounded the table’s edge, Matthew opened his mouth for some last word, but Anson knew the look and cut him off. “If you say ‘good luck’ to me, I will tell your ex-wife about at least one of your offshore accounts.”
The man put his hands up and curled a guilty smile. “Have fun, then,” he said. “At least try, for fuck’s sake.”
“Right.”
Anson left his friend behind without a backward glance. They’d known each other too long to stand on ceremony, and he had more pressing things to worry about just then. Like the group of women gathering near the steps that led to the stage.
Submissives, every one.
And among them, someone whose name he would roll.
A subset of a sub set, if you will.
With thoughts like that, was it any wonder he hadn’t found a play partner in years?
There was a change in the lighting as Anson approached the side of the stage to join the conspicuous cluster of Doms. A man with salt-and-pepper hair gave him a nod of camaraderie on his approach, and Anson nodded back, but kept his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t about to use his entire travel-size bottle of hand sanitizer on some stranger who wanted a shake.
How was he even going to do this? He’d been through it in his head time after time, but to be here now, in the reality of it all, made the blood rush at his temples. Real people played and got messy. Real people were constantly generating fluids. Who knew what kink the wheel would spin out for him and his as-yet-unknown partner? He’d put down the worst offenders for his hard limits, but what if they rolled ‘oral?’ Or some other equally moist activity he couldn’t think of just now?
“Welcome to Black Light!”
Cheers rose up from around the club and all eyes and ears went to the night’s MC, who had taken the mic.
“I know we’re all anxious to get this show on the road,” the younger man said, “and—trust me—I can’t wait either. This is the fourth annual Valentine Roulette here at Black Light, and it’s going to be dirtier, naughtier, and sexier than ever!”
Anson groaned inside. Hoots and applause burst from the crowd. The DJ was introducing someone. Possibly the club owner. There were too many stimuli, and Anson’s focus refracted in ten different directions.
This was going to be terrible. He wasn’t a people person like Matthew. He didn’t make women smile. He made them panic. He’d be too much for the sub they paired him with tonight. Too intense. Too odd. Too severe. Too cold.
‘Too Morrow,’ as his classmates had taunted him over twenty years ago.
“Thank you all for coming, and let’s hear it for DJ Elixxir!” The club owner, Jaxson, had finished his speech and was handing back the mic.
Elixxir began explaining the rules Anson had already seen in the email. Spinning roulette wheels to demonstrate. The Doms would draw numbers for order of spin, they’d each spin for the name of their scene partner, and then their partner would spin for their first kink.
There were prizes for couples who could make it through the whole event, but that was of least importance to Anson. While the membership dues were nothing to sneeze at, he stood alongside this stage to gain something more intangible than a sum of money he could always recoup.
He was out for understanding.
Of himself.
Was this life for him, or was he delusional? Could he master his grab-bag of neuroses for long enough to be the kind of Dom at least someone would be interested in playing with? More than once?
Everyone’s safe word tonight would be ‘red’, Elixxir was saying. How quick would Anson’s partner use it? He almost hoped she would. He could go home. Have a free pass from anxiety. At least anxiety about this.
As if it wouldn’t be enough to have people watching him. Tonight, there’d be even more voyeurism—people would be watching so they could vote on scenes. Just what he needed. An attentive audience.
You’ve been watching people play for months.
But, so what? Just because someone liked to watch, didn’t mean they owed it to the world to be an exhibitionist.
Well you’re going to be, tonight.
“Alright, everyone, who’s ready to get this party started?”
More shouts and applause from all around. The participating Doms for the night began to head up the steps and file onto the stage, and Anson found himself among them as though he were a passenger in a vehicle being driven by someone else. All the lights and colors in the club blared brighter with every step.
The men were lining up to face the crowd, and Elixxir had scooped up a handful of something from a cup. When Anson saw the man held popsicle sticks, he could feel it in his teeth, and the muscles in his chest and upper arms bunched.
No. Absolutely not.
He was going to safe word if they made him touch one of those.
The DJ made his way to the far end of the line and began offering the handful of vile little sticks to each Dom. This had to be the drawing of numbers mentioned in the email. Why? Why did they have to do it this way? Xylophobia was not that uncommon. Just the thought of it. That texture. Anson repressed a shudder. He can’t have been the only Dom in four years to have a problem with this.
Closer. Closer the fistful of Nope was coming, and Anson squeezed his right thumb in his left fist as he watched the other men each daring to touch one of the things like it was nothing.
And then Elixxir was in front of him, holding up the remaining four numbered sticks with a charming smile on his face. Anson’s eyes darted and his lips went tight.
“This is going to be your number,” said the DJ. “Here.” He lifted his handful to get Anson to draw a stick.
Now. Figure it out.
“I, uh”—he cleared his throat—“I can’t touch that,” he said to the poor man who was just trying to do his job. Anson jerked a nod and pointed to the stick fanned out on the far right. “Just—that one. I’ll remember my number.”
Something twitched amid the man’s black brows and he opened his mouth to say something, but then appeared to switch gears. “Okaaay…” He plucked out the stick Anson had pointed to and gave it a look. “Seven,” he said, and switched the number marker to his other hand.
“Seven,” repeated Anson. “Got it. Thanks.”
Prime. Perfect.
Elixxir gave him a confused little nod and moved to the next Dom in line, who of course also had an odd look for Anson before selecting his own number with no issues. The revenue agent let his shoulders drop with his breath. Of all things, they’d had to start with fucking popsicle sticks.
He let his eyes scan out over the top of the crowd now and when he passed by Matthew, the congressman raised his glass. No doubt his friend was rolling in amusement at Anson’s expense. He couldn’t bring himself to let his focus settle on the group of waiting submissives.
Six men would roll for partners before him, and eight after. The DJ was already calling for the Dom who held ‘number one.’
The wheel spun. The marble rolled. A woman peeled away from the group and joined her partner for the night onstage. The marble rolled again, and Elixxir announced the kink. The first couple stepped down to stand just alongside the stage.
Two. Three. Four.
Anson wished he’d brought his water up here.
Five couples, paired.
The cluster of subs was shrinking, along with the line of Doms.
Six.
One thing that scares you.
“Aaand number seven!”
White noise hushed in his ears. A man beside him coughed, and Anson forced that tiny switch inside himself up and on. The emergency switch that let some other part of him work on autopilot when anxiety had
the rest of him glitching in place like a worn-out VHS tape.
He arrived beside the wheel on feet that carried him without his own guidance.
“Mister M!”
Elixxir called out his compromise on a nickname for the night as Anson approached. Just like he wasn’t able to manage role play, it had felt too odd to invent some moniker for the form he’d filled out. An initial was the most he was willing to work out, for anonymity’s sake.
The wheel was already spinning. Elixxir was holding out the marble with raised brows, probably wondering if Anson was going to give him any more trouble like the popsicle sticks. He didn’t. His social autopilot took the marble, driving right over his internal handwringing by insisting that they were absolutely not going to be putting gloves on while standing under a spotlight with a forest of eyes on him.
Before he could think, his hand was releasing the marble into its little track to chase in the opposite direction of moving numbers. He could just hear the hollow circling sound over the music.
The marble lost momentum and skittered among slotted black and red pockets. Bounced. Settled.
He snapped his focus up to the group of women without even looking at the name on the wheel. Without thinking about rubbing his hands with the sanitizer in his pocket after handling that marble so many others had touched.
“Miss Pain!”
Anson blinked. A woman shouldered through from the back of the huddle and watched the placement of her high heels on the steps. She joined him onstage, a fox tail hanging from beneath her short, black dress. From back among the high-tops, Anson heard a familiar whoop.
He made eye contact, reality clamoring in around him, and the woman gave him a nervous smile. Shifted a mess of long hair over a shoulder.
Then her eyes widened.
“I… I just saw you,” she said, and her head tilted a degree to one side. “The other day.”
A jangle of pieces slapped into place. Ripped jeans. Wild hair. Cell phone.
“You were in the elevator,” the woman said, looking even more untamed here, with legs on display and neckline plunging.
Anson’s mouth was dry, but there was no point in denying it.
“I was.”
“Miss Pain?” Elixxir was waiting with the marble. “Would you like to roll?”
“Um… yes.” She spared another glance for Anson before taking the tiny white ball and casting it into the wheel with a loose wrist, in complete contrast to his own stiff tension. The woman stood with her weight on one leg, the lines of her spine, hips, thighs flowing in a beautiful asymmetry. Orchestrated and improvised at once, like one of his trees.
The marble clattered to a stop, and the man with the mic leaned over to see the result.
“And Miss Pain has rolled latex!”
She turned back to face him, teeth pulling on her lower lip, and came to his side amid some cheers from the crowd. The kink clearly wasn’t among her limits.
“After you,” he said, nodding to the stairs. They couldn’t stand in the way while eight more couples needed pairing.
Anson followed her offstage to stand near the growing cluster of Roulette partners. Some were already touching and flirting. Others stood with more tension. Fidgeting hands. Dom number eight was at the wheel.
‘Miss Pain.’ He wouldn’t have guessed that from the looks of the woman with whom he’d shared an elevator.
“Don’t you think that’s a rather on-the-nose nickname for a sub?” he asked as she had zero qualms about standing close enough for her shoulder to nestle nearly under his arm.
His sub for the night grew half a smile that knew more than it let on. “It really is,” she said, eyes on the proceedings.
If the woman was on edge, even in the slightest, none of it showed on her face or in her stance. It was as if, from the second Elixxir had called her name, she’d simply integrated the idea of ‘Mister M’ as her partner into her existence. It was fact, now, for all she was concerned.
At least as far as Anson could tell.
Her hair shifted against the sleeve of his sportcoat, and some scent rolled up to greet him. Citrus. And perhaps a tea of some sort. Anson inhaled.
This was real. This woman was real, and she was just standing there. Expecting to play with him.
In latex.
He hadn’t even stopped to consider the kink she’d rolled. Here at Black Light, he’d seen plenty of latex play. Never participated himself, but he’d gleaned at least a working knowledge of the logistics. But the acts his mind already began to pair with it?
You watch too much porn, Morrow.
Those images had the Dom in him twitching to life, but the last time… The last time he’d opened that door and truly stepped inside, apologies had not been enough.
So be a gentleman. Give her an out.
“You can safe word,” he said to the top of her head.
She turned light-colored eyes up to him—blue or maybe grey, he couldn’t tell under the colored neon—and gave him an unsure look. Hippie as he’d assessed her back in the elevator or no, she had a look of exquisite recklessness about her, somehow fragile and hot-burning, at once.
“You don’t have to do this,” said Anson. “If you don’t want to.”
Now her brows knit to full skepticism, though she’d hadn’t moved out of contact. Instead, she turned her body to face him. To search his face—a blunt assessment that made his skin feel electric. She squeezed the fingers of her one hand in the other.
“Do you want to do this?” she asked.
Anson swallowed.
“Number eleven!” the DJ called out from onstage. The applause sounded faraway.
The first of any sort of worry made a fine line between her brows, and he saw the thing that had him backpedaling. Does he not want me? Am I not good enough? The voices of fear began to spread on her features like an infection. He was standing there making her feel the exact thing he’d been dreading all night.
And rather than remove herself from the source of anxiety, like Anson might have, Miss Pain went toward it, chasing after what she wanted, even with insecurity hot on her heels. Her eyes shifted downward, deliberate, and she angled her face with them. Off to one side, baring her neck, pouring it on.
Submissive.
“Sir,” she said, “I want what you have.”
He could barely hear her over the music and crowd, but the soft voice wrapped around his spine and spun downward to wake up his cock.
Here. In person. Real.
What the fuck are you afraid of, Morrow?
Autopilot Anson had had enough of his anxious bullshit. In what was for him an outrageous move with a stranger, he lifted a bare hand to splay just above her breasts. Her ribs rose and fell when he slid his touch up over her collarbone and let his thumb play in the hollow of her throat. She kept her eyes on the floor.
“You don’t know what I have, Miss Pain.”
Maybe some part of him was still trying to scare her off, but she only arched her neck into his caress.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “You have control. Sir.”
And if her last word didn’t have certain machinery grinding to life inside him…
Anson leaned close, just to be in her space. He let his fingers circle into a grip at the base of her throat. “And you want control, little sub?”
Her shoulders melted forward and he felt her exhale.
“No, Sir. I want you to have it.”
Her words made a shadow come billowing in over Anson’s psyche. A long-awaited eclipse, and he could do whatever he wanted here in the dark. Be whoever he wanted. No—be who he was.
“Lucky number thirteen. Master R if you’ll come spin?”
Anson slipped his hold down to her shoulder and scooped the woman in a rough move, so her back was to his chest. She didn’t even flinch, just curved her spine back against him.
Anson Morrow was a Dom. And tonight, Miss Pain was going to submit.
They stood there like that, watching th
e remaining couples pair off. His thumb was back to drawing circles on her throat while the wheels spun out names and kinks. Glossy black images pulsed in his head, the scent and snap of latex a growing promise. When his dick filled out in response, Anson made sure to shift it against her ass. Whatever this well of confidence was, he was going to drink deep from it before it ran dry.
She pressed back and he felt a hum under his palm at her neck. Both her hands came up into a gentle hold on his wrist. Not to pull his touch away, but to cling. Oddly intimate for two people who didn’t know each other. Chance meetings in elevators notwithstanding.
The stage had emptied out.
“Everyone’s paired up,” Elixxir announced into the mic, “and you know what that means! It’s time to start Valentine Roulette!”
She could safe word if she wanted out.
Anson was ready to play.
Chapter 3
Violet
One of the other subs had actually warned her. About this exact guy, right here. And now Violet Payne was standing, ass nestled against his growing hard-on. Man, did she know how to pick ‘em.
But you didn’t pick him. The wheel picked you.
The sub, Kierra, who’d sort of taken Violet under her mother hen wing over the last few months had looked over a shoulder at the Dom Violet now knew as ‘Mister M.’
“And if you get paired with that one?” She shifted eyes rimmed in smoky shadow back to the straight-postured man standing at one of the high-tops. “And he does anything super weird or creepy? You safe word right out, bitch, and the DMs will have your back.”
“What’s wrong with that guy?” she asked, making sure not to look again.
“He just sits there and watches. Every time he comes in. Never buys a drink, just gets water.”
Violet snorted. “So it’s weird now not to be an alcoholic?”
Kierra made a face. “Just seems like a fuckin’ serial killer, to be honest. Too quiet.”
She didn’t know about any of that, but what Violet could tell was that Mister M was definitely not a politician. Or anyone in sales, like her ex. He didn’t have that ‘shaking hands and kissing babies’ field of charisma around him that tried to lure people in. This man had more of a… hmm, not barbed wire… a hi-tech security system of an energy. Warnings for people to stay out unless they had a right to be there. She’d watched him war with accepting her credentials.