When we’re finished, I tell everybody goodbye and head home to shower, do my makeup again―not that garish stuff we use on set―and get dressed to go to the club. If we’ve got an orientation session next Thursday, that means most of the guys who’ll be going through it will be there tonight and/or tomorrow night. They get a free trip in before orientation to see if they’re still interested, so I get to scope some of them out. That makes me very nervous. Not nervous like scared―nervous like excited. I’ll see one or two and wonder, Is he the one? The one who’ll finally want me? The one who’ll decide he’ll take a chance on me long-term? Who am I kidding? The only good part is that just because they’re new, it doesn’t mean they’ll be young. We’ve even had a few much older men join whose wives weren’t into the lifestyle and once they became widowers, they wasted no time. I’m not any less interested in them than I am the younger ones. Being around Dave taught me to never discount them.
“’Zat them over there?” I ask Brian when I sit down at the bar in Bliss, tossing my head their way.
“Yep. Eighteen of them. I’ll be lucky if five of them make it,” he says as he pours my drink.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so picky,” I say with a laugh.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so wicked,” he replies with a smirk.
So I watch them. Actually, I watch them without “watching them.” You know what I mean. The side-eye thing, not wanting them to see me looking. They are an assorted bunch, I have to say. Out of the eighteen, I see at least four different races, and they’re all kinds of shapes and sizes―short, tall, thin, chunky, hairy, not hairy―and it’s kind of comical looking, watching them all interacting. They’re wearing street clothes, jeans and tees, because Brian won’t let them dress out or even spend time in the dressing room until they’ve gone through orientation. “Is every last damn one of them green?” I ask as he refills my drink.
“All but one.”
“Care to tell me which one?”
Brian shakes his head and chuckles. “No. You’ll just have to take your chances. So whichever one you pick, you can train him the way you want him,” Brian snipes. “Unless you get the only one who’s got a clue. Spin the wheel.”
“Oh, hahaha. That’s very funny,” I snap back. “I think that’s a valid question for me. I’ve been through that too many times already,” I remind him, and the look on his face tells me he remembers. He remembers the Doms who’ve moved away without even telling me, the ones who just started scening with other submissives without a word, and worse yet, the three times I’ve been in the pairing ceremony and the Dom I spent two weeks with made no attempt to collar me. None. Left me standing there in the middle of the stage, alone. Twice, another Dom stepped up and tried to collar me, but I declined. The third time, nobody even bothered.
Oh, yeah, I’ve had my share of hurt, and I’m not interested in going down that road again. I’m really not. Over the years I’ve wondered why Dave and I never actually paired up, just scened together, and now I know why. His soulmate was coming for him and neither of us knew it. I’ve watched him with Olivia. If he and I had gotten together and he’d missed out on that, it would’ve been a true shame.
So here I sit, watching without watching, sizing them up. Two of them are squirrely little fellas, not somebody I’d ever be interested in. There’s a nice-looking black man in the mix, and I think I could scene with him anytime. There’s also a couple of Asian guys, and I start to think they’re brothers. Hmmm―brothers. That could be some kinky fun.
As I watch, one of the men stands up, and I suck in a breath. He’s absolutely, positively the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, with a broad chest, well-defined biceps, and narrow hips. His hair is long and medium brown with sun-kissed highlights, pulled back in a wavy ponytail, and his close-cropped beard is amazing. If ever there were a man who could wear that lumberjack look and still look elegant, it’s him. It’s all so perfect that for a split second, I wonder if he’s gay. He looks that polished. And that’s not unheard of around here. We have gay members, lesbian members, and I know first-hand we’ve got at least one transgender member. Nothing wrong with that.
To my horror, he starts heading my direction. Oh, god. I don’t think they’re supposed to talk to any of us until after orientation, so I don’t know what to do. I’m sitting there, wondering how to handle it, when he steps up beside me and says to Brian, “Hi! Could I just have a diet soda?”
Brian nods and smiles. “Lemon-lime okay?”
“Sure.”
“You guys talking about orientation over there?” Brian asks.
“Thank you. Unfortunately, yes,” the man says and takes the drink. Then his head snaps around and he says, “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. So rude of me. Were you two in a discussion?”
Ma’am? Ma’am? What the fuck am I, his grandmother? “Oh, no, not really. Just sitting here, sir,” I say.
“Good. I wouldn’t want to offend you in any way.” He’s got this southern drawl that’s making my spine tingle, and I could listen to him talk all night.
“What do you mean, unfortunately?” Brian asks him.
The guy just chuckles and shakes his head like he’s heard a corny joke. “Lawd, that bunch? They sound like a room full of frat boys. Do you have a lot of those in your membership?”
“God, no!” Brian answers, laughing. “Nope. And if I get that vibe from them during orientation, they don’t get a membership. I don’t want our submissives terrorized by a bunch of Dom-wannabes.”
“Thank god. There for a second I thought I was going to have to withdraw my membership request!” He’s laughing the whole time, and his laughter makes me want to hug him. It’s warm and squishy like a teddy bear’s growl.
Brian’s smile is wide. “I think you’ll be fine. But I hope you’re ready.”
“Bring it. I’m sittin’ on ready, waitin’ on go. And thanks for the drink. Evening, ma’am,” he says to me with a nod and walks away, back to the pod of fools.
“Nice guy,” Brian says with a grin.
“He called me ma’am,” I point out.
“Would you rather he called you skank?”
I shoot him a go-to-hell look, complete with an Elvis snarl. “Miss would’ve been preferable.”
“And also unrealistic,” he says, glaring at me.
I frown. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He’s wiping down the bar and then says to me, “Remember, getting old sucks, but the alternative is much less appealing.”
Sometimes I wonder. But there’s one thing I know for sure.
I just figured out which guy isn’t the green one. Doesn’t matter. He called me ma’am. I don’t stand a chance in hell.
* * *
I think about that guy all day Friday. Nice. Very nice. Like I need another distraction.
I’m trying to read one of my smutty romance novels, but his face just keeps sneaking into my thoughts, and that voice. God damn, that voice was amazing.
Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights are about like always at the club. Sunday night is always slow. Oddly enough, that’s the night someone asks to scene with me.
There’s a Dominant who’s been coming in occasionally for a couple of years, and he’s never given me the time of day. It’s been like I was invisible. Not kidding. Hell, I don’t even know his name. And I’d never given it much thought until this moment, when he appears to my left at the bar and smiles. I give him a half-hearted smile back and sip on my drink. It’s just ginger ale. I don’t drink much. I figure he’s going to get a drink and leave, but he sits down on the stool next to mine and stares down into his drink. In that very moment, I make up my mind that I’m not saying a word to him.
“Submissive, you look lovely tonight,” he says, even though I still haven’t looked at him.
“Thank you, sir,” I answer. That’s about as much as he’s going to get out of me.
He sits for a good while, never saying a word, until he finally asks, “Would you be int
erested in scening tonight?”
I finally turn to really look at him and find he has a beautiful smile. The rest of him isn’t shabby either. “I might, sir. What did you have in mind?”
“My kink is bondage. Is that something you’d be interested in?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure, sir. Could you be a little more specific?”
“Hogtying.”
Now that’s something I don’t hear very often, and I’m intrigued. I’ve never been hogtied before, but we have casts who do a lot of that on the set. “I’d be willing to try it, sir.”
“Good. What’s your name?”
“Melina, sir. And yours?”
“Baron. That’s all you need to know.”
“Very well, sir,” I respond, even more curious. “So what else, besides the hogtying?”
“I typically do orgasm torture with my hogtied submissives. Most often, penetration of one or multiple orifices, sometimes by objects and sometimes by me. I think I’d like to use your mouth, if that’s acceptable.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
He nods back. “So hogtied, tortured, and face fucked.”
“Orgasm torture,” I specify.
“Yes. Exactly.”
“As you wish, sir. We’ll start when you’re ready,” I say, staring into his eyes, then dropping mine appropriately.
“Submissive?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Look at me.” When my eyes lock with his, he smiles. “No pain. Just pleasure. This will be our scene. For anything else, we’ll go to a private room, okay?”
A smile creeps across my face. “Yes, sir. That would be great.”
“Good. Okay. Bare. No jewelry, no nothing. Too dangerous.”
“Yes, sir. To the locker room, sir?” He nods. “Be right back.” I hustle off to the ladies’ area and when I come back, I get a smile of approval from him before I avert my eyes.
“Here we go,” he says and takes my left arm, leading me to a performance area, the one with the huge bondage table. Five minutes later, I’m on my stomach, my wrists and ankles bound together, and I hear the vibrator start up. “Safeword, submissive.”
“Red, sir,” I reply.
“Very good.” With no further fanfare, he claps the head of the vibrator to my slit. It takes me a whole three minutes to have the first orgasm, but the next one is more difficult. Most women find it the opposite, but I’ve always been this way. Of course, I could fake it and get this over with. I mean, I’m an actress, for god’s sake. But where’s the fun in that?
Four orgasms later, he stops. Before he flips me over, he slips a big pillow between my limbs and my back, and when I roll, it’s actually pretty comfortable. Well, relatively so. That would never be comfortable, but it’s not excruciating. When he drags me to the edge of the table, I know what’s coming. He has a small crop in his hand and he looks down and smiles. “Open wide, submissive.”
“Yes, sir.” Once my mouth is wide open, he gracefully shoves his cock into my throat and slaps first one tit and then the other with the crop. Fuck, that’s hot! Every time he slaps one, I groan, and I know by his behavior that he can feel it. He’s taking his time, enjoying it, and frankly, I’m enjoying it too. It’s obvious he’s pleased, which is what I want. Well, that and a mouthful of cum. I love the stuff.
It takes him what I’m guessing is about ten minutes before he finally gives it up and by that time, I’m tired. It’s quit being hot and started being exhausting. Plus my throat hurts. He finishes by lodging his cock in my throat until I think I’m going to pass out, and then rolls me over onto my stomach again and starts untying me. When I try to sit up, I can’t, so he helps me up, then picks me up and carries me to the back. By the time he gets me in bed and the covers over me, I’m shaking like a leaf, absolutely freezing. “Let’s warm you up,” he says and pulls me close.
It’s surprising how comforting his body is. He’s not a large guy, but he’s no shrimp either. Matter of fact, each of our body sizes is almost perfect for the other. I’m cozy and sleepy and comfortable when he asks me something. “I’m sorry, sir, what?”
“Do you need anything?”
I shake my head against his chest. “No, sir. I’m fine right here with you.” The sweet rumble of a chuckle vibrates against my ear and I smile. “Can I take a nap? Will you wake me in about fifteen minutes?”
He kisses my forehead and says, “I’ll give you thirty, how’s that?”
“Perfect, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, submissive. You did very, very well out there. I’m impressed.”
Does that mean he’d like to eventually collar me? Oddly, at that moment, I don’t want that. Something, or someone, else is invading my thoughts. He’s tall, muscular, and has a deep southern drawl.
And I just can’t get him off my mind.
Chapter Two
I’m still sore, but I figure it won’t matter. I’ll be even more sore by this afternoon. First day of a shoot is always the worst. I still have some rope marks on my wrists and ankles, but the makeup girls can take care of that.
Nobody’s in the parking lot when I pull up, so I just park in my regular spot. It seems like more than the usual number of cars there, but there could be all kinds of reasons for that. I just grab my bag and head inside, my athletic shoes making a gripping sound on the wet concrete of the walkway.
It’s quiet when I make my way through the interior hallway, and when I step out into the large area where the sets are, I’m shocked. There’s a shoot going on. I watch for a second and I realize something important.
The guys are the ones who usually shoot with me, and I’ve never seen the woman before. My mind goes about a dozen different directions, and I step out and toward Don, the director. I’m almost to him when I feel a hand on my arm and I turn to find Shelby, my makeup artist. She leans in and whispers, “Melina, come with me.”
“What’s―”
“Just come on. Right now.” I let her drag me to the dressing rooms and when we get inside, she closes the door, backs me into a chair, puts a hand on each chair arm, and leans down into my face. “Melina, listen to me. I tried to tell them they should call you, but they wouldn’t.”
“About what?” There’s a sense of dread spreading through my gut that I can’t identify.
“Honey, if I’d known, I would’ve gone to bat for you, but I think this decision was made weeks ago.”
Either I’m too stupid to figure out what she means, or my brain just doesn’t want to accommodate it. “What decision? I don’t understand―”
“You’re not on this shoot, Melina. Look.” She turns and points to my locker across the room.
There’s a name on it: Abigail. “What the fuck―”
“They’d better come talk to you in the next few minutes or I’m going to lose my job because I’m going right out there―”
“No. I’ll take care of it.” I finally get the message, and I have nothing to lose at this point, at least not from where I sit. Before she can stop me, I push her back and storm out of the room, straight toward the set. “Hey, somebody wanna tell me what the FUCK is going on here?”
“CUT, cut! Take five, everybody!” Don yells, then hops up and starts toward me.
“No, no, NO! Don’t you come a step closer to me!” I yell at him, holding my hands up. “You tell me what’s going on RIGHT NOW!”
“Melina, can we just sit down and talk about―”
“No, we cannot just sit down and talk about this! What the fuck is going on, Don? Why is there somebody else’s name on my locker? What have you done?”
“I didn’t do it, Melina. It was management.”
“Management, schmanagement. Management always gets the blame for everything. ‘Oh, it was admin,’” I say in my most mocking tone. “It’s always ‘admin,’ isn’t it, Don?” I know my eyes are glowing red, and I don’t give a shit. This is bullshit and he knows it. “Tell me the truth. Who didn’t want to work with me?”
“Wasn’t me,” one of the guys calls out.
“Me either,” the other yells.
“See? It wasn’t my coworkers. And you’re saying it wasn’t you. So who was it?” Now I’m just getting belligerent, and I don’t care. I deserve answers.
“Melina Starlight?” I hear someone behind me call, and I wheel to see who it is.
It’s Bert Montgomery, the head of the studio. And whatever this is, it isn’t going to be good, I can tell you that. “Yes?”
“Come with me, please,” he says and without another word, turns and walks toward the front hallway. I follow obediently, wondering what kind of hell I’m going to fall into.
Once we’re in his office, which, for the record, is very nice, he points to a chair and I take a seat. “Ms. Starlight―”
“My name is Roberts. Melina Roberts. Don’t you have that in my paperwork somewhere?” I ask, seriously pissed that the guy doesn’t even know my name.
“Ms. Roberts, we’ve been going over records and decided to make some changes. Unfortunately, those changes necessitate you finding other employment.”
“Changes. Necessitate me finding other employment. I think what you’re trying to say is that I’m fired,” I spit out.
“I’d rather not call it that, but yes―that pretty much sums it up,” he answers, no hint of any emotion on his face.
Now I’m just furious. How dare he! “And exactly what did I do wrong to deserve this?” I almost shriek.
There’s this look on his face that I’d almost call smug before he answers, “You’ve had a few too many birthdays.”
My mouth won’t form words. My brain can’t even process what he just said. A few too many birthdays? Is he serious? “Are you trying to say I’m TOO OLD?”
“We need younger talent, Ms. Roberts. Women men find sexy and …”
I can’t even hear him anymore. A buzzing has set up in my ears that I can’t seem to shake, and it’s drowning out everything. I think he’s still talking, but I’m not sure, and I just get up and make my way out of his office. The shoot is still going on when I walk through, and I just keep going. Feeling around, I realize my bag is still on my shoulder, so I don’t even stop. Someone says something to me, but I’m not sure who it is, and I don’t want to answer. I don’t want to talk to them. I just want to get to my car and disappear.
Undeniably His: Bliss Series, Book Five Page 2