But there’s been no sign of her.
Everywhere I go, there’s only a blank space. A void. A place where I want her to be. Need her to be but she isn’t.
Other girls are always there, trying to fill the space like cheap imitations. Like a living lie every other person has fallen for but me.
At first, I was despondent. Sad. Lonely with not seeing her.
But now, as evening draws on, and I’m standing in front of the mirror getting ready to go to the Exchange Club, I’m grumpy. Pissed.
Frowning at my reflection, I try to slick my hair back for the millionth time with some hair glue into something remotely “dignified” despite my longer, more laid-back hairstyle, I wonder why I’m bothering.
I stare at myself thinking, Why even bother going there again? No way in hell Bianca’s going to be there. Mariah and Jane were at the club because Alex gave them an invitation. He went out of his way to invite them. Nothing like that happened to me.
I yank on the water feeling frustrated. Lied to. They keep saying “oh, yeah we’ll help you find your girl, Jordan,” but it means nothing. The woman I want won’t be there. Isn’t going to be miraculously walking herself onto the stage waiting for the highest bidder.
I scrape the hair glue off my fingers, not caring that the water is hot enough to cook a lobster. I turn off the water in the next second and snap a hand towel off the looped holder. I’d have better luck staying here, but I have two bone-addicted dogs for friends. They won’t break their habit, ‘til I get thrown one.
Roughly, I dry my hands. As I do, I catch a glimpse of my ensemble in the mirror. I’m in a pair of slacks, fancy sneakers, and a salmon-colored polo. Over it, I’m wearing a diamond-white blazer. Not my usual style, but if I didn’t put something over it, Paul would accuse me of wearing “pink” to this thing.
And at this point, I don’t want to deal with his “good-natured” fun at my expense. I’ve had enough.
On my way to open the bathroom door, I grab a different bottle of cologne. Something besides the Marco de Polo, I usually wear. Instead of the sporty, lemon zest, this cologne sweetens me, like a cinnamon-and-clove-infused bottle of bourbon. I spray under my shirt, then move to the back and sides of my neck, and finally my wrists.
The minute I step outside the bathroom, Paul says, “Wow, done already? I thought for sure you’d need at least another hour.”
I frown at him, glancing meaningfully at Alex. The man who keeps insisting he and his brother make the “world’s best wingmen” and say, “we don’t have an hour. We have twenty minutes.”
I walk to the door and automatically pat my pockets checking for my phone and my ticket into the event. They’re both there, but I don’t feel any better. Any more like I’m ready to go and do this all over again.
Opening the door, I murmur, “Though it’ll probably feel like an hour once I get there and have to sit at the table again.”
Paul follows me. “Cheer up, Jordan. It’s about to be your big night, man.”
“A big failure, you mean,” I grumble as I walk toward the hotel's exit. The sooner I can get this failure-of-a-night started, the sooner I can wrap it up and come back here. Maybe catch a glimpse of Bianca. Maybe ask around and figure out what room she’s in.
Paul catches up with me. For once he's being the responsible one and will drive us to the club. He deserves to do as much, considering I closed out the room and packed up for all three of us at Christmas after they went running like mad men after their women.
I’d probably do the same if I had my own woman. If it were Bianca I was trying to get back, but I’m not in that space right now. I’m just dreading the night ahead. Dreading the bland and boring women I know will come across that stage.
As we reach and walk past the reception desk, I say to Paul, “I forgot to mention there’s a creepy guy staying here. Had to chase him off on my way to lunch this afternoon. You might want to text Mariah and tell her to keep her and Jane localized to the room tonight.”
“Sure,” Paul says, sending a text.
I glance over at his phone and see he’s copied in Alex. Better to be safe than sorry.
Keeping the girls together and safe in the room will be easy. They’re already in Alex’s room hanging out for the evening painting each other’s toes or some other girly crap like that.
Outside, it’s dry for once. No fresh snow. No fog or ice. Just a cold, empty night sky. I should’ve ditched lunch, I think, wondering where Bianca is at this moment. Where in this whole resort she’s hiding. Or I should’ve at least offered for her to come with me, fuck what anyone else would’ve thought. Maybe then I wouldn’t be doing this bullshit.
I make it to Paul’s car. From somewhere behind me, he clicks the door open. I hop inside. Shotgun this time. Moments later, he reaches the car and steps into the driver’s seat.
Alex follows shortly after and jumps in back, much more excited about all of this than I am. Their eagerness is enough to make me want to punch them both.
There’s no point spending money tonight. It’ll do as much good as opening up the window on the freeway and throwing thousands of dollars into the icy wind.
But none of that matters to them. Without a care in the world, without any hint of disappointment, or any concept that I’m not one-hundred percent with their program, they take off toward our not-so-secret destination.
As we take the now-familiar roads, I let myself grouse. Bitch out loud. “I’m telling you. This is going to be a fucking phenomenal waste of time. And of my money.”
“Way to be positive, man,” Alex says. “Just let the Club work its magic. There’ll be something good there for you. If there wasn’t, we wouldn’t have the beautiful girls we have in our lives now. Right, Paul?”
“Exactly right,” he says, flicking his turn signal on. “And it helps that you’re not in sneakers and a baseball cap or wearing that ridiculous coat.”
I can’t take it anymore. I actually punch Paul’s bicep. Not playfully either.
He laughs me off saying, “Easy, boy. Save your frustrations for your girl.”
“I don’t want a girl. I want a grown-ass woman. Which I know is not going to be walking around that club.”
Alex flicks the back of my neck. I flinch under it, but don’t do any more in response. “Stop being so moody, Jordan. Just give it a chance, okay?”
No matter what I wanted to say to that, no matter what witty or snarky comment I wanted to sling back at him, it'll have to wait because we’re here. We’ve pulled into the shadowed parking lot of the even more mysterious mansion. A holdover from a bygone era only historians care about.
Paul cuts the engine, and Alex cuts the crap. Before I can put up any protest, he’s at my door, hauling me out of my seat. “You’re going down there, if I have to drag your sorry ass all the way to the door, you hear me?”
“And if you’ve heard me,” I say through gritted teeth, “you’d know there’s no fucking point to any of this,”
For all his pulling, Alex hasn’t succeeded in doing much more than get me out of my seat belt.
But Paul, like always, has to give his baby brother a helping hand. A hand that unceremoniously shoves me out of the car completely.
“Get in there, and we’ll get you some chocolate. That should help with your PMS,” he says, shutting my door and locking it.
With that, I’m left to be dragged by Alex toward the basement and the Exchange Club waiting below.
Chapter 9
Bianca
When I first arrive at my destination, I feel like a drunk stumbling from place to place. First into the right parking lot, then to the right old colonial/Victorian-looking mansion. Then it’s a mad dash into the basement, and to whatever part of that basement holds the Exchange Club.
Luckily for me, the moment I start my way down the stairs, I see the sign in big, bold gold lettering. I also see my mystery woman from the night before handing something to a doorman. She’s wearing a bright red
blouse and a pair of black slacks. Her hair is just as wild as it was before, but now little red tips have been added to the spikes.
With me wearing my chunky, red high heels, my mystery woman hears me before she sees me. She turns in my direction. Watches, but doesn’t break out into a smile until I’ve descended into the light and out of the shadows.
“Glad you could make it,” she says, coming to help me off the last step and toward the doorman.
I wouldn’t normally be up for receiving help from a woman like this (she’s leading me like a princess at a ball), but with my heavy bag of fun in my other hand, it’s nice to have the support.
Plus, it makes it a breeze to get in. I don’t even have to take out the card she gave me. I only have to let her do the talking. Which she does, the moment we reach the doorman. “She’s with me, Bud.”
“Very good,” is all the man says as he opens the door for us and bows. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.”
My mystery woman hollers something back at him. I don’t hear what it is exactly, but that’s because I’m immediately taken by my surroundings. The dark, velvety vibes. Everything looks like it’s been draped in plush fabric. The walls, the carpets, even the furniture — though I know they must be made from wood and stone. The textures are so soft and luxurious in the dimly lit room.
And as for the mouth-watering aroma scenting the room. Oh my God! That takes my breath away more than anything else. I don’t know how they’ve done it, but the people running this place have somehow distilled the essence of chocolate dipped strawberries into a perfume. Into a spritz that coats the air and kisses me from every corner of the room.
“I always like what they do with this place on Valentine’s,” my mystery woman murmurs as she guides me elegantly through the even more elegant tables and chairs. The room is already filled with other guests who give the club a welcoming warmth.
“Tonight, it’s got a lot more romance than it usually does,” she says, her tone dropping as we pass by a particularly crowded table. Not so much testosterone.”
Crowded of course, with men.
“Though there is still going to be plenty of that flowing this evening,” she continues, walking me up to what I realize now is a giant stage. Luxurious, wine-colored curtains drape all around it. Rose petals are scattered across the hardwood stage, and some bouquets hanging as decorative pieces.
Tapping sounds nearby, like someone walking in very heavy, very nice dress shoes gets my attention. Accompanying the sound, appears a woman. She’s dressed in a tuxedo, Fedora and white gloves. Not your typical feminine dress, but who am I to judge?
I’m here to find a man who wants to be dominated by me for a night. That’s not typical “feminine” behavior either. At least not according to the few boyfriends I’ve been unfortunate enough to have.
The moment the woman in the tuxedo sees us, she makes a beeline in our direction. She takes off her fedora, almost sharing a secret greeting with my escort.
“Evangeline!” She reaches for her. Kisses her on both cheeks. For real. Not just the fake air thing people do in my neck of the woods. “So good to see you back. It’s been a while.”
Evangeline, my mystery woman unboxed, says, “It has, hasn’t it, Tory?”
Tory's eyes slide to me. Intrigued, but also confused. Surprised. She looks me up and down. Mostly seeming to appreciate my dress choice for the evening. Particularly my pink bag. She hums at it thoughtfully before snapping her eyes back to Evangeline. “So, Evan, am I to assume you and your” — she searches for the right word—“Gir—”
“Guest,” I supply quickly, “guest.” I take my hand out of Evangeline’s, and thankfully she doesn’t seem bugged by it.
Tory clears her throat, putting her fedora back on. “Guest,” she says. “Am I to assume that you and your guest are going to be participating in our auction this evening?”
I step forward, not waiting for Evangeline to answer for me. “Yes. Yes, I am,” I say, though I have no idea what exactly the auction entails. I have some wisps of an idea. And some beginnings of what I might put up for auction if it's what I think it is, but my thoughts may change once I see how everything really works. How it’s done.
“So am I,” Evangeline murmurs.
Tory practically clicks the heels of her dress shoes together as she turns. “All right then, ladies. This way, please.” With that, she heads for the stage and into the bright lights.
Walking up the steps and onto the stage, I keep my bag close and my eyes peeled. Rows and rows of tables stretch before me. Endless collages of faces.
But there’s one face I’m startled and overjoyed to see. Jordan’s. The poor guy doesn’t look happy to be here. He looks miserable. Almost sick as he sits there. He’s surrounded by two guys I don’t recognize and don’t care for. They’re a mixture of clean-shaven and rugged, not something I’m into.
Doms, I think. No wonder a guy like Jordan looks so glum being sandwiched between them. As I take my place next to Evangeline — Tory’s started a line with us and is busily adding other women — I say silently, don’t worry, Jordan. If you’re the good boy I think you want to be, I’ll get you out of your personal hell. Just wait.
I exhale deeply, watching him take a drink of something very big, very alcoholic and very Valentine’s Day. Just… Please look this way.
As if by magic, his eyes flicker in my direction. Lock on to me as if called by my wish. The moment he sees me, he almost sucks the straw from his drink into his throat, he’s so stunned. Shocked. I see him mouth, “Bianca?”
To that, I nod. Smile a little.
I have no time to do anything else. More girls line up either side of us. And Tory has gone into full MC mode, caressing the microphone like a new lover. “All right all you lonely hearts,” she says, “Welcome to the Club!” A pause as her sultry excitement echoes over the speakers. “If you’re here for tonight’s event, you all know how it goes by now, so let’s see what these lovely ladies are offering and get the bidding underway, hm?”
This is exactly as I suspected, we auction ourselves off. The realization doesn't shock or surprise me, it thrills me because it means I'll finally get what I want — a man to worship me and the man I want is Jordan. Excitement fizzes between my legs and zeros in on my throbbing clit.
Hooting and hollering — from men and women — meet this statement. I take this moment to set down my bag of tricks. Somehow, I'll work them into my auction, I just don’t know how yet. But I’d better figure it out soon.
The first woman’s just been called up.
***
There’re a couple things I’ve learned in the last twenty minutes of watching these auctions. The first is that the woman can action off whatever she wants and take whatever bid she deems appropriate for whatever she’s offered, whether that be dinner and a movie, a three-way, anal virginity, and more.
The second thing I’ve realized is that nearly everyone sitting in the audience has fortunes to blow on this kind of thing. While I’m no stranger to making good money at my publishing house job, I’m still surprised. Surprised that anyone would have that much expendable income, and for often no more than a night’s worth of whatever kind of fun’s been offered.
But all that pales compared to what Evangeline discloses shortly before being called up for auction. Barely able to contain herself, she turns to me, a wild look in her eyes, and says, “I’m going to auction myself off as part of a gang bang. To have one with however many men or women enter the bid together.” She grins, seeming to already be savoring the possibilities. “Eight people would be nice, but I’d settle for six.” That part is more to her than to me. But I still don’t know what to do with it.
I’m stunned by this revelation. A gang bang? I didn’t know people actually did that kind of thing, let alone want to be auctioned off for it. I guess I really shouldn’t be surprised by anything anymore, should I? And, besides, who am I to judge what anyone does or doesn’t do.
I glanc
e over at Jordan again and at the two guys he has seated at his table. They’re nothing like him and I wonder how someone so sweet and tender can be friends with two knuckle draggers like them. But, again, who am I to judge.
Just as I fold my hands loosely in front of me, and flash Jordan another smile, Evangeline whispers hotly “So, have you decided what you’re going to auction off?” She asks me this just as a woman’s bid for her first lesbian experience comes to a close. Some wealthy lady in the audience bought the baby bean and her virginity for a staggering $100,000.
It’s about to be Evangeline’s turn.
“I have a pretty good idea,” I tell her quietly.
Tory glides up to us, calling her friend to the mic.
“Well,” says Evangeline, moving lithely toward the front. Toward Tory. “If you need any inspiration, just watch closely.” She winks and then scoops up the microphone as if it’s her victory prize. Her trophy already won.
“And you, my lady,” Tory says seductively as if they’ve shared more than time at the Club together. “What are you offering tonight?”
Evangeline sways thoughtfully. Seductively. “Well, I’m offering myself up for a gang bang. Open to a group of men and women who’d like a piece of me and each other tonight, I give you the space and the freedom to explore. Express. With me. With the others in the bid. Any and all types of sex and foreplay are on the table as long as everyone in the group — whom ever you may be — agrees.”
Instantly, there’s clamoring. Shuffling of chairs and tables. Knocking of said tables and chairs as groups of men and women get together and start talking about a combined bid for Evangeline. I’m blown away. When she said she was offering a gang bang, I thought for sure she would have maybe four, maybe five people interested. There’s at least quadruple that. Maybe more, if you count the groups of people still forming.
Tory chuckles deeply, adjusting her bow tie, then her fedora. “Anything else?” The way she asks this, it’s as if Evangeline’s bid is tame tonight compared to what she might have offered in the past.
Sold as a Domme on Valentine's Day Page 5