Promiscuous

by Missy Johnson

  “I can't stop thinking about you,” he whispered, leaning forward, his lips meeting mine. I returned the kiss with passion as his fingers continued to rub me, making me even more wet than I already was.

  Still, as turned on as I was, and as much as I wanted this, I couldn't escape the past. Not today.

  “Tell me how much you want me, Bethy,” he whispered in my ear.

  I froze. My eyes widened, and all I could feel was the pressure of him on top of me. Bethy. Bethy. The name shot through me like a knife.

  No, no, no, no!

  Frantically I pushed him away. He was too close. I felt like the room was closing in on me, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out. I struggled to breathe. This was my first panic attack, and it was my first in the middle of sex.

  I was embarrassed. I felt like a fucking fool. What the hell was wrong with me?

  Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I sat up, wrapping the sheet around me. Roman appeared in front of me, kneeling on the floor, staring up at me with concern.

  “Beth, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?” I shook my head, the words refusing to come. I couldn't explain this to him. What would I say? I just needed him to go. If he left, I could pull myself together and move past this, but I couldn't do it with him here, watching me.

  “Please, Roman, I need you to go. I know you want answers, but right now I need to be alone.”

  “Are you serious? You're a mess. The hell I'm leaving you alone while you’re like this. No fucking way, Beth. You don't want to talk to me? That's fine, I won't make you, but I'm not leaving until I know you're okay.”

  “Roman, please.”

  “Don't argue with me, Beth. I’ll go down to the living room. Take all the time you need, and if you need to talk, I'm here for you. Don't push me away.” He leaned toward me, placing a delicate kiss on my forehead. I curled up on the bed and watched as he walked out the door.

  ***

  I sat upright in the bed, breathing hard. I must've fallen asleep. The last thing I remember was Roman—oh my God, I didn't want to think about that right now. How could I show my face to him again? He probably thought I was a nutcase, which wouldn't be too far from the truth, but hearing that name…Bethy.

  I reached over, grabbed two Tylenol off my bedside table, and took them with some water.

  Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me?

  ***

  Was he still there? I glanced at my phone. I'd been asleep for nearly five hours. Surely he would've left by now. Standing up, I pulled on my robe, tying it around my waist. I tiptoed down the hallway and kicked around the corner into the living room.

  My heart swelled at the sight of Roman curled up on the sofa with his head resting on a cushion, fast asleep. Very quietly, I walked over to him and sat in one of the armchairs opposite. I could sit there and watch him sleep all day. As creepy as that was, that's what I felt like doing. There was no denying how protected he made me feel. Exactly what that meant, I hadn't figured out yet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Roman

  I was still confused by her sudden change in mood when I arrived at the club. I hadn’t been planning on going there that night, but I was getting frustrated. I needed familiarity. I needed to be able to relax, and this place was the only place that would allow me to do that.

  I entered through the back and made my way down to my office, smiling at a couple of the girls on my way.

  “Hello, ladies.”

  They smiled back, their eyes meeting before they burst into giggles. I got that reaction a lot around here. To most of these girls, I was a man with a lot of mystery about him. I kept largely to myself.

  It seemed the less people knew about you, the more attractive you became. That was a big part of the allure of this club: the anonymity. People didn't come here to make friends. They weren't looking for love, or looking for a new tennis partner. They came here to play a role, to fulfill a fantasy. No questions, no expectations, and no shame.

  Inside my office, I let the door shut and buzzed through to reception.

  “Alli speaking.”

  “Hello, Alli, can you bring me a coffee please?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Hale.”

  I hung up and then flicked on the security monitors and studied them closely. I recognized a few people—some as regulars, and some who had high profiles within the community. I knew the overweight man with the graying hair was grand jury judge Terrence Manfeld. And the slight Asian woman on the sofa with her husband was a national TV newscaster.

  I watched as one of my girls engaged with them, laughing and talking, before leading them into a room down at the end of the premises. Judge Manfeld followed, taking a seat in one of the two armchairs outside the room.

  In essence, Protégé was an exclusive swingers club with a BDSM focus. Most people associated swinging with bad seventies hairstyles and out-of-control parties thrown by middle-aged parents involving a bowl full of keys. That couldn’t be further from the reality I offered.

  Protégé was pure class. I made sure of that.

  It was a place where people could live their fantasies of anonymous BDSM without the fear of judgment. Every member of the club signed a non-disclosure form prior to entry. The rules in place were there for every member’s protection, and they were non-negotiable.

  I’d learned before that people who were insistent on breaking the rules were unlikely to adhere to threats. Any member caught breaking the rules would be immediately removed, without warning or a second chance. Break the rules, and you were out—permanently.

  Every one of Protégé’s members had something to lose by coming here. My job was to keep the place invisible. Where most places thrived on exposure and exclusivity, mine relied on staying out of the public eye. Whether you were ‘happily’ married, trying new experiences with a partner, or just into experimental sex, Protégé could accommodate you.

  A membership did not guarantee you entry whenever the mood hit. Bookings were still required for all non-VIP members. As of the month before, our membership was up around two thousand, five percent of whom were VIP. Some members came once a year, some once a month. Everybody was different, and there were no attendance obligations. We had people who had been members for months and had yet to experience what the club could offer them.

  The club offered regular theme nights, and tonight was the perfect example: public humiliation.

  It sounded much more hardcore than it actually was. Or maybe I was just desensitized to it. In approximately fifteen minutes, a pretty young thing was going to be suspended in midair wearing nothing but the ropes that would bind her ankles.

  It actually surprised me how popular the public humiliation nights were. Usually theme nights would take place once every few months; this one had turned into somewhat of a monthly thing, though. The waiting list to participate exceeded six months. We had all types of people wanting to watch and wanting to be humiliated. It was all voluntary, and participants could stop at any moment—though they rarely did. I'll admit it: standing anonymously with a crowd of bystanders watching a woman bound and gagged get fucked senseless from every angle was incredibly arousing.

  Had I participated? No. Would I? Probably not.

  For me, the turn-on was purely a visual thing. Some would say it was disgusting. That it was degrading to both the men and women who were being humiliated. But the thing you needed to remember was, the whole thing was voluntary.

  We had so many systems in place to ensure the safety of everyone. It wasn't for everyone, but for those into rough sex and voyeurism, it didn't get any better than this.

  One of the most common misconceptions was that we provided sex. This was not a brothel; we did not supply women—or men—for sex. We had several hostesses working at any given time who were strictly non-contact.

  We simply provided a place for people to meet other like-minded individuals who were after a little bit of fun. Did I participate? Sometimes, as did other staff members, but we were
not paid for our involvement.

  Generally, there were three types of members: those who liked to participate, those who liked to watch, and those who liked to be watched.

  Which did I fit into? All of the above.

  I was very complex when it came to my sexual needs. I knew what I liked, and I was confident in getting that. I thought about Beth, and how she would react to this place. When I first met her, I would have thought she’d like it, but her behavior lately had me doubting that assessment. I laughed at how ridiculous I was being; her reaction to Protégé was the last thing I should have been worrying about.

  A rap on the door brought me back to the present.

  “Come in.”

  Alli came in, coffee in hand. She smiled at me, then darted her eyes downward as though she were intimidated by me. I smiled, my eyes following her as she walked over and set the cup down in front of me.

  “Thanks, Alli. How are you today?”

  “Great thank you, Mr. Hale. You are looking very sexy tonight,” she added. Her face colored, and I chuckled. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay, Alli. Tell Scarlett I’ll be out shortly.”

  She nodded, and ducked her head before retreating out the door, closing it softly behind her. I took the coffee and sank into my chair, spinning around to face the monitors again. My eyes fell on the judge, who was furiously fisting his erection as he watched the couple fuck through the floor-to-ceiling window.

  All “private” rooms at Protégé had window-paned walls, so it was like fucking in a fish bowl. Which was great if you were into voyeurism—and let’s face it, who doesn’t get turned on at the sight of another couple exploring each other?

  After I finished my coffee, I removed my jacket and rolled up the cuffs of my sleeves, showing off my tanned forearms. I walked out the front and scanned the club for Scarlett, spotting her over near the bar, chatting to a couple. Leaning against the wall behind me, I watched her. She was so engaging. Her smile lit up the room. She had the couple hanging off her every word, and more than once the man's eyes drifted down over her short silk dress.

  I chuckled to myself. This was exactly why Scarlett was my right-hand man. As shy as she sometimes acted around me, in this place she came to life. It was like she was born to do her job, and she did it fucking well.

  "Roman?"

  I turned and saw Dahlia, her blue eyes sparkling as she smiled at me. I smiled back and accepted the hug she was offering me.

  “Dahlia, so good to see you. How have you been?" I asked. Dahlia had been frequenting the club since its early days, sometimes with her husband, sometimes alone.

  "Really good. Andrew’s over there." She pointed to one of the corner sofas, where I could see Andrew in a deep conversation with a pretty brunette.

  "He looks like he's having fun."

  "Well, we both will be in a few minutes when we take her into one of the rooms." She laughed, reached out, and touched my arm. "You could always stop by," she added coyly, a little smile playing on her lips. "I know how much you like to watch."

  Maybe I will," I muttered, watching as she walked away. She walked up to Andrew and the brunette, who stood up, linking her arm around Dahlia’s back. Andrew was obviously in for a hot night. Maybe I would stop by later . . .

  "Sorry, I didn't see you come in." Scarlett smiled at me, her cheeks flushed from running.

  "It's okay. You looked to be in pretty deep conversation over there." I raised my eyebrow.

  "Yes, they’re new. I was just explaining the ins and outs of everything to them."

  "Good work. Are you under control here?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  I smirked. "Don't ask questions, Scarlett."

  She blushed.

  I shook my head and walked toward the room Dahlia and Andrew were in. The blood began to rush through me as I tried to rationalize what I was about to do. Why was I feeling guilty? This was so fucked up. Beth and I weren’t anything. I wasn't good enough for her, and she'd find that out eventually. Besides that, I didn't want to give this up. The last thing I wanted was to be in a relationship where I felt guilty for doing what felt right for me.

  Dahlia looked up and smiled at me. I was about to sit down on one of the provided couches outside the room when she motioned for me to come in. I hesitated, but only for a second. That was all it took me to realize I was doing this.

  I sat down in the corner of the room, my leg folded over my knee, just watching. Really, how different was this from watching a video? It was like a play of porn—or a musical, if they started to dance. I chuckled at the thought.

  "Something funny?" Dahlia asked. She sauntered over to me, slowly unbuttoning her tight shirt. She slipped it over her shoulders, the fabric slowly sliding down her dark skin. "You sure you don't want to participate?" she teased, already knowing the answer. I never joined in. I was content with just watching.

  "I'm fine here, thank you."

  "Suit yourself."

  She walked back over to the bed that sat in the middle of the room. Dressed in the finest Egyptian cotton sheets, the huge bed could accommodate an orgy of people. And sometimes it did.

  Andrew was already naked on the bed, the brunette pressed up against him, naked, her knees apart. She moaned softly as his hands ran over her body, resting on her bare pussy. Lifting her arms, she wrapped them around his neck. She faced my direction, giving me the perfect view of her perky breasts and slender body.

  I swallowed as Andrew slid a finger inside her, moving it in and out slowly. Dahlia came around the far side of the bed and began pumping his cock. I shifted in my seat, my pants restricting as arousal began to stir inside me.

  Unzipping my fly, I reached inside my boxers and freed my cock. Now fully erect, I fisted the base of my shaft, my hand moving back and forth. Closing my eyes, I imagined Beth kneeling before me, taking my cock in her mouth, her sweet, soft lips working my length while her tongue ran along my shaft.

  I gasped, my fist moving faster as I brought my attention back to the show before me. Dahlia lay on her back, her legs spread, while the brunette with the perky little breasts lapped at her pussy. Even from where I was sitting I could see how wet she was.

  Andrew began to rub the brunette from behind, his other hand stroking his cock. He rolled on a condom and eased it inside of her ass. She didn’t flinch, her mouth not leaving Dahlia for even a second.

  Fuck, yeah. There was something so erotic about watching people fuck. I pumped my throbbing cock, precum covering my fingers as I worked from base to tip.

  “Fuck,” I hissed as I released, my load shooting onto the floor in front of me. Holy shit, that felt good. Standing up, I fixed my pants and walked out, thinking to myself that we didn’t pay our cleaning staff nearly enough.

  ***

  I had only one thing on my mind when I entered the house after returning from the club, and that was to call Beth. I'd been thinking about her all night. Imagining her . . . Imagining us. I glanced at my phone. After four in the morning was probably pushing it, but then again, knowing her, she'd be up. Or out. Possibly getting drunk. Possibly picking up some random guy to take home and fuck.

  A surge of anger rushed through me. A text. I would send her a text.

  Are you awake?

  I waited impatiently for her to reply. Five minutes . . . ten minutes . . . After half an hour, I gave up. If she didn't want to talk to me, then I wasn’t going to wait up half the night like a pussy. I didn't care how irrational I sounded, or that it was the middle of the night and there was a very good chance she was asleep; I wanted to talk to her, and she wasn't answering. That pissed me off. And I was angry that it got to me so much.

  Storming into the kitchen, I opened the fridge and grabbed a beer. I flicked off the lid and walked into the living room, slumping down on the sofa. The TV was on, but there was nothing worth watching. Fuck this. I stood up and went to bed, tipping the untouched beer down the drain in the kitchen on the way.

  Chapter Fourte
en

  Beth

  I woke early the next morning, the left side of my bed empty. The soft creases in the sheets were my only proof that it hadn’t been a dream. I sighed and closed my eyes, imagining his hands moving all over my body.

  I really liked him. A lot. But the problem was, every time we had been intimate, it had been after I’d been drinking quite heavily. The thought of being touched by him—or anyone—while I was sober terrified me. I freaking jumped when his fingers unintentionally brushed past my arm. How could this possibly work without me, at the very least, explaining to him what had happened?

  This was not good. I thought having him around might give me something else to focus on, but I was becoming more and more reliant on his company. I could feel my independence slipping away.

  I rolled over and reached for my phone. Three text messages and a missed call. All from Roman. I clicked on the first message.

  Are you awake?

  I checked the time. He'd sent that just after four in the morning. I wondered if he'd left by then. I clicked on the second message.

  I'm sorry about yesterday. If I hurt you, I didn't mean it.

  That one had been sent at six this morning. Finally I clicked on the last message, not sure what to expect.

  Give me a call when you can. I hope you're okay.

  I smiled and lay back in the bed.

  ***

  Around midday I got up and showered. I had a meeting at the recording studio to run over a few ideas for my latest album. That didn’t bother me, but Ivan would be there. I’d spent weeks combing over my contract, looking for a clause to get out, but he was right—if I fired him, he would sue me, and I could lose everything. I didn’t care about my possessions and money; it was the thought of everything going to him that made me angry. No matter which way I looked at this, he won.

  I clutched my jacket tightly around my waist as I walked inside. Ivan and Sam, my producer, sat in the corner in a heated discussion over something. Just when I thought I’d made it past them unnoticed, Ivan looked up and caught my eye.