by Chelle Bliss
One
Ret
I’ve grown bored. It’s not something I’ve ever experienced when it comes to sex. Someone lights my fire for at least a night, but tonight…nothing.
Being a member of The Club has been a great thing. It has allowed me to make a lot of new friends since moving back to Karim, Texas a few years ago. Lately, though, something has been missing. The typical night of fun spent with a submissive doesn’t seem to give me the same thrill it did before.
It’s my failure, not theirs.
The ladies I spend the night with do everything a Dom could ask. They bend to my will, follow commands, and allow me to push their boundaries. But there’s no light. No fire. Nothing to keep my embers simmering, stoking the flames.
“Ret, I don’t understand. What’s the problem?” Misha asks in a light Russian accent, sliding into the booth across from me with Stella, his submissive, by his side. “I thought you liked Elle.”
Turning the glass of scotch in my hand, I grit my teeth and exhale. “I tried with Elle. Twice, I tried. We’re not a fit. She’s just not my type.”
She had everything I wanted on the outside. There was instant attraction, but the more I talked with her, the less appealing she became. Maybe it was her willingness to submit so easily that turned me off.
“I didn’t know you had one.” Misha smirks before patting his leg for Stella to obey. Without hesitation, she climbs into his lap and melts against his body. I envy their relationship—the trust they have in each other.
“Would you like something to drink, Sir?” The waitress stands by the edge of the table, staring down at me from under her lashes, holding the tray against her exposed hip.
“I’m fine.” Annoyed with myself, I wave her away.
Misha motions toward the waitress as she walks away, swinging her hips wildly before daring to sneak a backward glance over her shoulder. “Is she your type?”
“No,” I grumble before taking a long, slow slug of my drink, watching Stella and Misha over the rim before movement to my right catches my eye.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” Alese, a notorious Club switch, yanks free of a man’s hold and spits in his face just outside our private booth.
He lunges toward her and glares. “Get back here, girl!” He’s about to grab her arm when she cracks him across the face.
Preston Stevens, head of Club security, comes from out of nowhere and catches the man’s hand before he strikes her. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“This bitch,” he snarls, spit flying out of his mouth as he glowers at her. “She wanted to play, and then she runs out of the room, screaming like a crazy person.”
Preston moves between the two, giving Alese some space. “Are you okay, Alese?”
“I’m fine, Sir.” Alese wipes away the tears that have fallen down her cheeks and looks at the floor, letting her golden hair hide her face.
“I’m the one wronged. Why are you asking her if she’s okay?” the man asks and takes another step forward, but Preston stops him.
“That newbie just lost his membership,” Misha mutters before returning his attention to Stella.
“They better not let him back.” I glare at the man and memorize his face. Although I don’t mind inflicting pain, I’d never treat a woman like a piece of shit as he just did to Alese.
“May I go, Sir?” Alese asks Preston, crossing her arms in front of her and rubbing her shoulders.
Preston nods to Alese before glaring at the man, daring him to say another word. “Yes, Alese. You may leave.”
“Thank you.” She scurries off into the darkness and out of my view.
There’s always been something intriguing about Alese. We’ve spoken a few times, but I typically scare her off. It never bothered me. Switches aren’t really my thing, especially one like Alese. She can’t seem to find her footing in either role, Dominant or submissive.
I’ve watched her enough to know that she is a submissive, but she hasn’t admitted it to herself. Finding the right partner will make her realize her true nature.
“Let’s have a chat in my office,” Preston says to the newbie and points toward the security office.
“I didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, you should be escorting that slut out the front door.”
“Sir.” Preston clears his throat and looks around the room before grabbing the man by the shirt. “Right now, it’s best if you don’t say another word.”
The asshole mumbles under his breath and knocks Preston’s hand away. “We don’t need to talk. This club is bullshit. I’m done.”
“We’re sad to see you go.” Preston has a great poker face. When the man stalks off toward the stairwell, Preston walks quickly and motions to another Suit to follow.
“Maybe you should play with Alese,” Misha says.
The thought of touching her has made me hard. Maybe it’s the fight she has in her that turns me on suddenly, but it has never happened before. When I’m about to reply to Misha, I glance over and snap my mouth shut.
He’s whispering in Stella’s ear, stroking her neck, but he’s staring straight at me. Even though I can’t hear what he’s saying, I can’t look away. His hand traces a path down her chest, following the edges of her V-neck dress. “You like that, girl?” he asks loud enough for me to hear.
Her back arches, and she moves toward his touch. “Yes,” she whispers.
Misha smirks and cocks an eyebrow in my direction. I nod and give him the go-ahead. If I’m not going to spend the night with someone, I may as well watch someone else enjoy himself.
“Spread your legs,” he tells her, rubbing her nipple through her dress with his thumb. “Don’t come until I tell you to.” She nods and shimmies down his lap before his other hand disappears below the table. “You’re here to please me, girl. You’re my plaything tonight.”
She nods again as her chest begins to rise and fall faster. Her lips part, but not a sound comes out of her mouth.
My cock hardens inside my pants, and my breathing becomes uneven. It’s not Stella that’s turning me on, it’s her response to him and their connection.
Stella’s a beautiful woman, one of the prettiest in The Club, but completely off-limits to me. The way she responds to Misha—to his touch, to his words—turns me on.
I touch myself, squeezing my cock and praying that my hard-on will subside, but I fail. Between seeing Alese’s tear-filled eyes and hearing Stella’s tiny moans, I’m so turned on that the strain against my jeans becomes unbearable.
He toys with her nipple, pulling on it, and she sucks in a sharp breath. “You like that, don’t you, girl?”
She doesn’t speak, but she moves her chest toward his hand. His lips find her neck, licking a path up to her ear. He moans and cups her breast in his palm, tweaking her nipple between his fingers. “You get me so hard. Do you feel how much I want you?” Misha whispers against her ear.
She moans, squeezing her eyes tighter and causing little creases around the edges. I fist my dick harder, trying to find some relief, but I only make it worse.
Misha’s arm starts to shake the table as his pace quickens. I can almost smell her arousal from across the booth, and my mouth waters from the scent.
“Lucky bastard,” I whisper so quietly that only I can hear over the music in the background.
Stella’s body starts to tremble, her creamy skin glistening under the lights. Her breathing changes, and she lets out a small moan.
Misha’s hand stops and he whispers in her ear. She nods before his hands start to move again under the table. “Open your eyes, Stella. I want Master Ret to watch you fall apart in my lap.”
Her head slowly moves off his should
er, and her eyes flutter open. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry when our eyes meet.
Without breaking eye contact, and with one hand still holding my hardened cock, I pick up the scotch and watch intently over the rim. I try to quench my thirst, but it doesn’t work.
I don’t need a drink.
I need a submissive to end my hunger.
Stella licks her lips, making my situation worse. Setting the glass down on the table, I keep my hand wrapped around it and slide my fingers up and down the wetness.
Her breath falters and she blinks slowly, her eyes rolling back for a moment when her mouth falls open. She’s coming on his hand and looking me straight in the eyes.
I smirk, loving the face a woman makes when she comes. There’s nothing sexier than watching someone shatter.
When she collapses against him, gasping for air, I use the opportunity to leave. I need to find someone to quench my thirst.
I’d never thought about settling down, finding someone to sit at my feet and take care of. But recently, it’s all I keep thinking about. Pushing thirty has me reevaluating my life. I no longer want a plaything. I want a lover, a partner, and the one who completes me.
Two
Ret
I’m about to head out for the night, giving up on any hope of satisfaction, when I collide with a soft body. She stumbles backward, her high heels teetering when I reach out and grab her arms to steady her.
“Shit!” she screeches and clings to my arms. She’s a mess of blond hair and heels that are too high and should be illegal.
“Steady,” I mumble and pull her forward. I forget about the hard-on still straining against my jeans.
“Thanks,” she says behind her hair as she finds her footing, but she’s still clutching my forearms. “What a shit night,” she mutters when she releases my arms and brushes the hair away from her face.
“I saw,” I tell her when I realize it’s Alese. “That guy seemed like a complete prick.”
She closes her eyes and exhales. “You have no idea.” Her eyes dip down to my crotch before flitting back to my face. “Not a good night for you either?”
I should remind her of protocol. She should be calling me Sir, but right now I think she could use a break, and I’m too sexually frustrated to even care. “No, but not as bad as you, piccola.”
Her nose wrinkles. “What’s that mean?”
I hold out my hand near her face, waiting for her to give me approval when she nods. “It’s an Italian term of endearment,” I tell her as I brush a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Something like little one.”
“I’m not little.” Her cheeks flush, and she breaks eye contact.
I smirk, not realizing I’m still touching her face. Alese may be around 5’6” without heels and over 5’10” with them, but she still doesn’t match my 6’4” frame. “But you are, compared to me.” My hand slides across her skin instinctively, cradling her cheek in my hand.
Her tongue darts out, sweeping across her bottom lip. “Thank you,” she whispers, keeping her eyes downcast.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?” My thumb moves across her skin, slowly stroking her cheek.
She swallows hard, still not looking me in the eyes. “Yes.”
My cock grows, loving the way she responds to my touch and her inability to look me in the eye.
Tonight’s display with the newbie member isn’t the first time she’s had trouble either. Time after time, she would try to give herself to someone but ultimately fail. She has a trust issue. Sometimes she’d try to be a Domme, taking classes, but she never really had the ability to boss anyone around.
“Do you want to have a drink with me, Alese?” It comes out of my mouth without a thought.
Her head snaps back, bringing her gaze to mine. “Now?”
“Yes.” I nod and scan the room, seeing two open seats at the bar. “We can sit at the bar if you’re more comfortable. I think we both deserve to unwind a little before we leave.”
Her eyebrows draw together, and she looks serious. “Just a drink.”
“Just a drink,” I tell her and nod. “Bar?”
“Um,” she mumbles and pulls at her lip, peering around my body and scanning the bar. She shakes her head with a slight frown. “I’d rather sit in a booth, please.”
“As you wish.” I hold out my arm to let her walk in front of me, but I have ulterior motives. I want to check out her ass, and I prefer not to have my hard dick on full display.
She pauses for a moment, glancing down at my crotch before giving me a crooked smile. “I understand.” She winks and takes off toward the booth area, swaying her hips from side to side on her five-inch heels.
She stops in front of the dance floor, scanning the booths. “Where do you want to sit?”
“You pick.” I rub my chin and watch her carefully, trying to figure out why she now looks so appealing to me.
“Hmm,” she mumbles and purses her lips. Her eyes sweep to the left and then to the right. “I just don’t know. Maybe.” She moves to her left and heads toward the one at the end, but she stops and turns around. “No, not down there.”
“No?”
“I don’t want to sit by the bathrooms.”
“Okay,” I mutter and bite the inside of my lip to stifle my laughter. “To the right.”
She stops walking and peers down at the end. “But that’s near the VIP area. I don’t think I want to sit by them.” She chews the nail on her index finger and looks between the two booths. “I don’t know. You pick.”
Her reaction is completely in tune with her personality. She wants to be in charge, but she can’t make a decision. Being a Dominant, whether male or female, a person needs to be able to make a decision and follow through. From the whispers I’ve heard around The Club, Alese doesn’t have the ability to make decisions about little things, let alone ones that deal with sexual dominance.
I place my hand on the small of her back and stare down at her. “May I?”
Her shoulders slump, and her chin dips toward the floor. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
“Let’s go down by the VIP area.” My hand presses harder, resting near her bottom, moving her toward the right to the quieter end of The Club.
She doesn’t pull away, but she walks in step with me as we head toward the table, allowing me to keep my hand against her skin. After she slides in, I follow, leaving about a foot of space between us—just enough room to make her uncomfortable and test her boundaries. She doesn’t try to scoot away, but she fidgets with her hands in her lap and avoids eye contact.
I motion to the waitress and look down at Alese. “Do you want to talk about what happened earlier?”
She bows her head and concentrates on the movements of her hands. “I don’t know.”
“It’ll stay between us. Maybe I can help you work through whatever problem you had with him so it doesn’t happen again.” I’m lying. I really want to get in her head. Find out what makes her tick and what triggered her to run away from the Dom.
“I need a drink first.”
“What can I get ya?” Marta, the waitress, asks and keeps her eyes downward, unlike the girl earlier.
“I’ll take a Johnnie Walker Blue, and Alese would like…” I pause and look over at her. “What do you want?”
She shrugs. “Wine?” She says it more like a question than an answer.
“She’ll take a glass of Dom Perignon, Marta. Thank you.”
“Yes, Sir.” She nods and saunters toward the bar behind our booth.
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