by Roxy Sloane
I follow him outside and cautiously approach the cab.
“Miss Jenkins?” the driver asks. I nod. “Right on time.”
He holds the door open for me. I check the car, but it looks legit: a regular yellow New York cab with a driver ID number on the back of the partition. I get in.
“It’s an address uptown,” I start to say, but the guy just starts the engine and turns the radio up. We drive away.
I sit back, and decide to relax. The neon lights of the city are passing by outside the window, and I’m on my way to meet a sexy stranger for a night I’m sure I’ll never forget.
Still, safety first.
I dig my phone out of my purse and call Keely.
“What’s up, babe?” she answers on the first ring.
“I’m going on a blind date,” I tell her.
“Ooh, who’s the lucky guy?”
“I don’t know, that’s why it’s a blind date,” I smile. “I’m texting you the address, so if you don’t hear from me tomorrow…”
“I’ll have every police officer in the state on alert,” Keely laughs. “So how do you know him, anyway?”
“It’s a friend of a friend,” I lie. I haven’t told her about the invitations yet. I like that they’re just my naughty secret right now.
“Have fun,” she tells me. “I want to hear everything!”
I hang up, and try to collect myself. I don’t know what I’m getting myself into here. I barely know where we’re going. I tried to google the address, but it brought up nothing. I’m going in blind: I don’t know whether it’s going to be a fancy restaurant, or a trendy club.
Or a hotel room.
Since I didn’t know where I’m going, it took forever to pick an outfit. In the end, I went with one of my favorite dresses, a deep fuchsia wraparound dress that can be opened with just a strong pull of the sash. I always feel so sexy and daring in it – a strong breeze could flip my skirt and reveal the sinful scrap of black lace thong panties I’m wearing underneath.
After a few more minutes, the cab pulls to a stop. I look around. We’re on a deserted industrial street – the kind that will probably be hip in another year or two, but right now just looks sketchy. There are no restaurants or bars nearby, just old warehouses and a run-down dry-cleaners with a ‘closed’ sign out front.
“We’re here,” the driver tells me. I gulp.
“How much is the fare?” I ask, reaching for my purse, but he shakes his head.
“All taken care of. I’ll be waiting here whenever you’re done.”
I take a breath. That makes me feel better: knowing I can leave anytime I want. Still, this is seriously weird.
As I try and work up the nerve to get out of the cab, a black limo pulls up just ahead of us. A couple slide out of the limo and walk over to the warehouse building. They’re dressed in a suit and cocktail dress, and the woman has a fur wrap thrown over her shoulder. They step inside and disappear.
Seeing them out here makes me feel reassured, like I’m not going to wind up dead in a ditch before morning.
“Well?” The cab driver asks. “Are you gonna sit there all night?”
I make a decision. “No.”
I get out of the car and walk over to where the other coupled entered the building. My heels tap on the cobblestones. They’re not so much fuck-me heels as fuck-you heels: black peep-toe stilettos with leather straps that criss-cross up my calves. I always feel invincible and bad-ass wearing them, and I figured I could use the jolt of confidence tonight.
As I approach the door, my pulse kicks with excitement. I’m taking a step into the unknown with this guy tonight. And I can’t wait.
I turn the handle and step inside.
Inside is a small lobby area, dim and classy with marble floors and a sleek antique desk. I let out a breath of relief. It looks nothing like the building exterior, which makes this even more intriguing. A large man wearing a suit and an earpiece guards a staircase cordoned off by a velvet rope.
“May I help you?” The voice comes from a dark-haired woman in a lace dress, waiting behind the desk.
I clear my throat and look at the bouncer again. I still have no clue what this place is. Exclusive restaurant? Members-only club? “I’m not sure. I got an invitation…” I trail off.
“Do you have a key?”
“A key?” I repeat, confused.
“Yes. To access the club, you must have a key.”
I stop, my mind racing. So far Mr. X has planned everything about our encounters with perfect precision. He wouldn’t have sent me here unless…
Wait. The key pendant he sent me as his very first gift. The diamonds were too stunning to resist, and I’m wearing it around my neck tonight. The pendant nestles in my cleavage, hands-down the most gorgeous piece of jewelry I’ve ever owned.
“Do you mean this?” I ask, pulling it over my head. I hand it to the woman, and she smiles.
Bingo.
I watch as she inserts the key into a small box connected to her laptop. She reads the screen and her eyes widen. “Ah, yes. Hello, Ms. Jenkins. We’ve been expecting you.”
She hands the diamond key back to me. “We suggest you keep your key handy while you’re here. It can be used to pay for anything you like - drinks, dinner, or any of the more... exotic amenities,” she adds with a knowing smile.
“Do you know who it belongs to?” I ask hopefully. “Who set this up for me, I mean.”
Her smile turns bland. “I’m sorry. We’re very discreet about our members’ privacy.”
No go.
I slip the necklace back around my throat and turn towards the stairs. The bouncer unlatches the rope, and stands aside for me to pass.
“Wait,” I pause, glancing up the stairwell. It’s dark, and I can’t see more than a few feet ahead. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.
“What is this place?” I ask, feeling a tremor of nerves.
“It’s fantasy made into reality,” he replies with a wink. “Welcome to the Underground.”
CHAPTER NINE
I slowly climb the staircase, my heart racing in my chest. I can hear faint music coming from the top. It’s an intriguing mix of stringed instruments, drums, and electric guitars¸ growing louder as I get closer to the top.
The light is dim, but I can make out pictures hanging on the walls beside me, beautiful black and white photos. I look closer at one and realize that it’s a photo of a delicate wrist bound by a scarf. The next photo is of an eye, the pupil dilated wide. Then plump lips open in a gasp. The photos are sensuous, erotic.
I shiver with anticipation.
“Ms. Jenkins? One more thing,” the woman calls out, following me up the stairs. “I almost forgot the most important part.”
She holds out a clipboard and a pen for me to sign the form. It’s too dark for me to make out the small print. I pause.
“I never sign anything I haven’t read,” I reply. Standard lawyer protocol.
“It’s just a nondisclosure agreement,” she replies. “I’m afraid I can’t let you enter without signing. We take our members’ privacy very seriously,” she adds.
I’m torn. My lawyer instincts tell me to sit down and go through the form with a fine-toothed comb, but I’m impatient to get inside and see what tonight is all about.
I squint at the page, scanning as much as I can. It seems standard, so impulsively, I scrawl my signature at the bottom. It’s a leap of faith, but my mystery man hasn’t steered me wrong so far.
“Thank you,” the woman nods. “You’re free to enjoy our facilities now.”
As I hand back the clipboard, I realize that she’s not wearing a slip under her dress. Her nipples are visible, rosy beneath the lace, and when I glance lower…
She’s definitely not wearing any underwear.
What is this place?
“Is there something I’m supposed to… do?” I ask hesitantly. I don’t want to seem like a total idiot, but I’m flying blind tonight.
That narrows it down.
I turn back to the entry and take a deep breath. I climb the final few steps, and emerge from the staircase into a larger room. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark interior, but then I look around, eagerly drinking it in.
I’m standing on the edge of what looks like a bar – a private, classy, luxurious bar. The decor is unique but elegant, all dark gleaming wood, supple leather, and luscious velvets and brocades. I’m not alone; there are maybe a dozen other people here, lounging at tables and in the booths. I look at them curiously. At first, they look like any other crowd you’d expect to find at an exclusive place like this, but when I glance closer, I can see, they’re not the usual fashionable New York elite. The dresses are tighter, more risqué. Leather and lace, visible lingerie and plunging necklines. There’s an edge beneath the polish: a hint of bold cuffs and chokers, a glimpse of a tattoo.
It’s daring and provocative, and I love it.
Someone brushes past me, and I step out of the way. A woman struts by in a tight leather dress. She’s holding a leash, and walking two paces behind her is a man wearing a crisp tuxedo – and a collar around his neck.
It hits me all at once.
Holy shit! He brought me to a sex club!
I look around again, my heart racing. I’ve never been somewhere like this before. I always figured they were seedy places full of middle-aged swingers, but this is something else: classy, bold.
Sexy.
My heart pounds in my chest. I feel my nipples tighten. I can’t believe this is what he planned for us, but I’m excited too.
“Ms. Jenkins?”
I turn. A man is standing beside me, a young, cute guy in a tux. For a moment I catch my breath, wondering if this is it, if I’m finally meeting him face to face… Then I see the red piping on his shirt, the same as the bouncer downstairs.
It’s not him.
“A member asked me to give you this.” He hands me an envelope, and then melts back into the crowd.
Another invitation.
I tear it open, and read the note.
What’s your fantasy?
I look around, scanning the room. The last time he did this, he was close by, watching every move. I know in my bones that he’s here tonight, too.
Watching. Waiting.
What does he want from me?
I tuck the note in my purse and decide to look around. He won’t show himself until he’s ready, and in the meantime, there’s plenty to distract me. I go over to the bar and order a gin martini, dirty. The bartender is another hot guy, this time wearing a tux jacket, open over bare abs and some kind of leather harness.
Yum.
He catches me looking. “I get off in an hour,” he murmurs, handing me my drink with a wink. “My Domme lets me out to play, and I bet those heels of yours could do some damage.” His eyes drift lower. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for my reply.
My pulse kicks. I take a sip of my martini and wonder if this is what my admirer planned for me. But I don’t think so – and the thought of digging my killer heels into this guy’s back makes me wince, and not in a fun way.
“Not tonight,” I say with a smile, but still, the invitation boosts my confidence. I walk away with a swing in my step, looking for my next adventure.
I do a circuit of the room, absorbing the scene. Most of the people sit in small groups, drinking and flirting, but it’s like an amped up, X-rated pick-up joint. One man has a woman sitting on his lap as they talk to a friend. Her dress is falling open, and the man is slowly fondling the woman’s breasts as he talks. At one table, a distinguished looking man eats dinner as a beautiful girl kneels on a pillow at his feet. Her head rests against his knee and she looks up at him with total obedience as he feeds her bites from his plate. They seem so intimate, I have to look away. I move on, my head spinning.
I find a seat on the edge of the room and take another sip of my drink, trying to steady my nerves. I feel like I’ve wandered into an alternate universe, where people are happy to flaunt their desires and darkest secrets, totally unashamed. It’s a rush, watching them. I’ve always thought I was pretty wild in the bedroom, but these guys are on a whole other level.
My eyes catch on a glamorous woman in the corner booth. She’s dressed in a silky robe, with diamonds glittering at her neck and wrists, flanked by two hot younger guys. She could be on the cover of any magazine, or maybe she’s a high-powered executive with a taste for the finer things in life. As I watch, curious, the men lean over and begin kissing along her neck and shoulders. She strokes their heads gently, guiding them lower. They ease the robe open, baring her full, round breasts, and turn their attentions there, licking and caressing her.
I watch, entranced. She opens her eyes and notices me.
Shit! I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment, but she just gives me a satisfied wink. She leans back and closes her eyes, guiding one head down below the table like she doesn’t even care I’m here.
Wow. I try to imagine what it would be like, to be in her place. Just laying back as someone – more than one man – pleasures my body. Here, in the open, for anyone to see…
I feel a tightness low in my belly. A heat between my thighs. I’m already getting turned on, and I’ve barely been here ten minutes.
I tear myself away from watching the threesome, and keep circulating. I don’t know why He brought me here, what he wants me to see, but I’m loving what I’ve found so far.
There’s an archway leading to another room, so I step through. This space is smaller, set up as a kind of performance area with a raised platform at one end and a carved wooden X shape mounted on the far wall. I look closer, and realize that it has leather cuffs fastened on each plank to strap someone in place, spread-eagle. This person would be restrained, so that anyone could touch them, spank them, keep them under control.
Kinky.
There are several hallways leading off from the room, so I pick one and head deeper into the building, my pulse rising. It’s nearly pitch black except for the dimly lit signs along the walls, and I feel like I’m on a forbidden scavenger hunt, with no idea what I’m going to find.
I read the signs as I pass. The rooms are all named by different precious stones: Ruby, Sapphire, Emerald, Pearl. Some of them have ‘occupied’ signs hanging from silk ribbons, others are ajar. Inviting.
One of the rooms labeled Onyx is open. I feel a shiver of curiosity, and gently push the door wider. I peek inside. There’s nobody here, so I step into the room and look around.
It’s set up like some kind of torture dungeon, but it’s the classiest, sexiest dungeon I’ve ever seen. Black silk drapes on the walls, patterned damask rugs on the polished floor. There are ropes and pulleys dangling from the ceiling, dull metal gleaming in the light. On one wall, there’s a carved wooden rack of objects: crops, canes, whips and paddles. In the corner, I find a mahogany spanking bench with intricately carved handles – to grip hold of while somebody uses one of those crops…
Is this why he brought me here?
I shiver, nervous and turned on at the same time. This place is totally wild, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. The more I see, the more my mind explodes with possibilities of what I could do. What he could do to me…
More than that, I love what this place says about him. He’s a member here, he knows all the rules and regulations. Maybe he’s even used this room before – the spanking bench, the riding crops.
Everything he’s done so far - the notes, the lingerie, the butterfly, the club - has been perfectly planned, designed to arouse me and drive me into a frenzy of anticipation. Well, he’s got what he wanted. Being surprised like this, turned on, pushed out of my comfort zone -- this is my wildest fantasy.
So how does he know?
The question lingers in my mi
nd as I retrace my steps back to the bar. This time, a group of people is forming around the stage area in the anteroom. I join them in time to see a woman take her place across a padded spanking bench. She’s wearing a short silky dress, and as I watch, a man in a designer suit strolls forwards and carefully ties her hands and feet in place. He’s wearing a mask, a simple black strip across his face, so his identity is hidden.
When the woman is secured, he leans over and murmurs to her. She nods, looking eager, and then leans over so her silk-covered ass is thrust in the air with her blonde hair spilling down over her face.
The man turns to select a tool from the rack beside him. He lifts a kind of whip, with thick leather strands hanging from a main hilt, then slowly paces around so he’s behind her. The crowd hushes, like they’re watching a show. I find I’m holding my breath, full of anticipation about what’s to come.
The man slowly pushes up her dress. She’s not wearing any panties, and the globes of her ass glow pale in the dim light. He runs the strands of the flogger over her bare skin, and I swear, I hear her moan.
“What’s the magic word?” The man murmurs, trailing it down her crack.
“Please,” the woman gasps. “Oh god, please.”
As if released by her permission, the man lifts the flogger and brings it down against her ass in a sharp crack.
Holy shit, that had to hurt!
But the woman doesn’t make a sound. She grips the edge of the bench, her face flushed, breathing heavily. He strikes her again, on the other side, and then again.
She moans.
I shiver, but I can’t look away. There’s something enthralling about the scene playing out on stage, the way he trails the leather across her red ass, the steady rhythm to his flogging. The woman’s moans get louder. With each expert hit and caress across her ass and thighs, she squirms harder and then begs for more. Her thighs are wet with her juices, her expression desperate with lust.
She loves it.
The crowd is silent, caught up in the sensual spell. I find myself getting aroused by her pleasure, about how totally illicit this is. I imagine myself up on stage, strapped down and bent over the spanking horse. My wet pussy bare for the audience to see as Mr. X rains down hits across my sensitive ass.