Grabbing one in her size, she screwed up her courage and walked over to the counter, which Divine now stood behind, clicking away at the computer. “Hi,” she said, looking up immediately as Fiona approached. “You all right?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m just wondering if it would be possible to try this on, please?” Then, glancing doubtfully at the outfit, added, “And if I get stuck, will you help me get out of it?”
Giggling, Divine nodded. “You ain’t gonna get stuck, honey, but yeah, sure. Just shout ‘mayday’ and I’ll come running. Okay, head through that red curtain.” She pointed. “Changing rooms are just through there.”
“Thanks.”
A few minutes later and Fiona was not only dressed in the slutty schoolgirl outfit, but was actually admiring herself. Fortunate to have the figure to pull the tiny skirt and white vest top off, she clipped the collar and tie ensemble around her neck and peered into the mirror. She looked a million miles away from the PR professional image she gave off most of the time. In fact, she barely recognized herself. If she added pigtails, some hipster glasses, knee-high white socks and sexy shoes, she reckoned her own mother would walk right past her without realizing. Perfect.
It was only as she was changing back into her regular clothes that she thought to check the price. She had no idea what this sort of stuff cost. She heaved a sigh of relief when she seized the tag. Even at full price it wasn’t too bad, but as luck would have it, it was on sale. Figuring it was meant to be, Fiona gathered up the items and her bag and made her way back toward the counter.
Another couple of customers had arrived in the meantime. A middle-aged guy was looking at the PVC and chains she’d thus far avoided, and a woman who looked to be in her late thirties was having some purchases rung through the till. Fiona tried not to look, but couldn’t resist a glimpse. Black PVC bra and hot pants, black PVC ankle boots and red fishnet stockings. Suddenly, Fiona had the feeling that she might very well see the woman again in the not-too-distant future.
As the woman took her purchases and left, they exchanged polite smiles, and Fiona stepped forward to put the things down on the counter.
“You didn’t need rescuing, then?” Divine asked, looking a little disappointed.
“No. You were right. It’s fine. But I was wondering about…accessories?”
“Okay. You have anything in mind?”
“I’m pretty new to this, but I was thinking some fake glasses, knee-high socks and maybe some shoes? Also, I noticed this was on sale…” She indicated the outfit.
“Gotcha. You’re after some bargains.”
Heat flared in Fiona’s cheeks. “I can afford… I mean—”
Divine cut her off. “Hey, don’t worry about it, honey. I love a bargain myself. There’s no shame in that! And if it means you’ve got some budget left over to come back and see me soon, then I’ll be a happy girl.” Tipping Fiona a wildly flirtatious wink, she stepped out from behind the counter. “Come on. Let’s see what we can do…”
Chapter Seventeen
Even though the sun was slipping from the sky and London’s streets were dropping into shadow, cooling rapidly, it was still way too warm for a coat, much less a long one. Still, Fiona had no choice. She couldn’t be spotted leaving the hotel dressed like she was, and she didn’t want to travel through the city with people staring at her, either. She hurried from the Totally Five Star, lest someone see her and engage her in conversation, then get to wondering where she was going so heavily made-up, and with her blonde hair in pigtails.
So, wrapped in the coat, Fiona made her way through the Mayfair streets, the red-brick and gray stone buildings beautifully dappled with light and shade, in the direction of Green Park Tube station. She grumbled to herself about the fact that it’d take her longer to walk to the station than it would to get the Tube the three stops to Vauxhall, in spite of the flat shoes she wore. Figuring there was no easy way to hide knee-length white socks and sexy skyscraper shoes, she’d opted to carry those in a tote bag and put them on when she arrived at the venue. For now, her unremarkable ballet pumps would do. Hopefully that innocent method of footwear would stop people wondering why exactly her coat was longer than whatever she had on underneath it. The socks would have definitely given the game away.
It was even warmer in the bowels of the Underground system, and Fiona huddled at one end of the platform, wafting the lapels of her coat to try to cool down and giving the Jack Daniel’s poster on the curved wall opposite her quite the view.
She became aware of someone in her peripheral vision, so she snatched the lapels close again, hiding herself and staring resolutely at the poster. Soon, the train arrived and she stepped on and sat down, shifting her bag into her lap and holding it and her coat tightly to her. She couldn’t help peering round, though. Always a fan of people-watching, she wondered how many of the folk around might be heading to the same place as her. The events were clearly popular, so someone had to be going. They couldn’t all go by car—driving in London wasn’t the most desirable method of transport, not even on a Friday night. And who wanted to drive, anyway, on a night out like this?
Disappointed, she shifted her gaze back to her lap. She hadn’t spotted any latex, PVC or leather anywhere. And there was no one else huddled into outerwear that could be hiding such things, either. Everyone she’d seen was dressed in regular gear or office wear. Damn. Maybe she was too early? Maybe no one turned up until much later and she’d end up standing there by herself, like a total moron?
Only the fact that the venue was a mere twenty yards from the Tube station stopped her from getting off the train at Vauxhall, crossing to the opposite platform and going back the way she’d come. If she was right, she could be on a northbound train within ten minutes, maybe five. But she had to find out, first, just to be sure. She’d come this far. She couldn’t turn back now.
Exiting the station, she headed for the arches beneath the nearby bridge. The website she’d been on had been pretty descriptive. A couple of minutes later and she knew she was in the right place, and that there’d be no need to scurry back to the station just yet. A queue of people waited to get into one of the doors, over which was the sign for the club. Excellent.
However, on walking past the queue to join it at the rear, Fiona grew more and more confused. There were a few people dressed in club or fetish gear, but for the most part, they wore regular street clothes. What happened to the strict dress code she’d read about?
After a beat, the penny dropped and she wanted to kick herself. Of course—most people were carrying large-ish bags, which presumably held their outfits. And maybe, just maybe, some of the folk were so scantily clad underneath what they wore that they’d step inside, strip off their outer layers and get right on with partying.
Bloody hell! Why hadn’t she thought of that? It would have saved an embarrassing, sweaty and stressful journey. Still, at least she knew now, and if she were to return to this event or attend a different one, she’d stash her outfit in her bag and change on arrival.
The queue moved at a good pace. Fiona guessed that the people running the show probably got to know the patrons, so only new people or potential troublemakers would be thoroughly searched and checked out.
Fishing in the bag for her purse, which held the required ID and cash, she found it then clutched it tightly, ready to retrieve whatever was asked for first. It turned out to be the identification. A friendly looking woman in a skin-tight black PVC dress checked it, nodded with satisfaction, then waved her in. “Have a good evening, honey. Just pay at the desk, leave whatever you like with the cloakroom staff and head on in.”
“Th-thanks.” Heaving a sigh of relief to get off the street, Fiona hustled in and did as the woman had said, as well as swapping her cute shoes for the knee-high socks and heels. Then, feeling much better now that she’d discarded the coat and large bag, replacing the latter with a smaller bag containing only her purse, phone and other essentials, she entered the venue proper.
> There, she let out another sigh of relief. The place was already half-full—and, judging by the still-growing queue she’d just left, that would soon change—and the outfits on display meant she didn’t stand out. In fact, she fitted right in. She was perhaps a little younger than most of the people she could see, but that didn’t matter. As far as she was concerned, this was a research trip, to find out firsthand what happened in these places and whether her curiosity would remain as just that, or whether she, like James and Logan, wanted to make kink a regular part of her life. At this stage, she was completely open-minded.
Thanks to the things she’d seen in the shop where she’d bought her own outfit, the get-up other people wore wasn’t quite so shocking. Or, if it was, she managed to hide her reaction. PVC as far as the eye could see, shining even in the dim lights, tight clothing, leather, plenty of corsets—and, despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help but stare at the male pensioner she saw sporting one, very tightly cinched—and some gear so skimpy it was impossible to tell what it was made of.
Teetering a little on the shoes, which were cute and sexy all at once, with their black background and pink and white polka dots, she headed for the bar. She’d eaten a good meal before coming out and had limited herself to two drinks. Like That Night, she required a little Dutch courage, but needed to have her wits about her, so getting drunk wasn’t an option.
A couple of men in what could only be described as hotpants, thick black collars and nothing else stood aside to let her get to the bar. Her research indicated that these were submissives. Whether they thought she was a… What was it? A Dominatrix, or Domme, she didn’t know, but she smiled politely and thanked them, before placing her order with the barman, a cute guy around her age in leather trousers and matching waistcoat.
She paid for her drink—a lurid blue alco-pop, which she’d bought because she figured it wouldn’t spill if someone nudged her—thanked the barman and turned back to face the room. Okay, what the hell should she do now? She’d gotten this far, and was proud of herself for having done so without chickening out, but being a wallflower in this area wasn’t going to give her much information. It seemed that this was where people just hung out and danced a bit—like in a regular bar or club, but with considerably less—or more outlandish—clothing.
To have any idea of what these events were really about, she needed to bite the bullet and get to where the action was. Taking a few pulls on her drink, she wandered away from the bar, deeper into the room, and looked around some more, trying to work out what was happening, and where.
Some helpful signs on the wall indicated where to find the toilets, the dungeons, the playrooms, the smoking area and, most intriguingly, the performance area. Figuring that was the best place to watch without being expected to join in, Fiona made her way there.
Passing down the narrow corridor was a bit of a squeeze, with queues for the bathrooms, and people milling here, there and everywhere. She’d never understood why people couldn’t just adopt the rules of the road whilst walking—if everyone just kept left, things would be much easier. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she finally emerged from the melee and spotted a sign indicating that the next door on her right led to the performance area.
She was just about to step into the darkened room when a hand lightly gripped her arm and a surprised voice said, “Fiona? What the fucking hell are you doing here?”
Horrified, she spun to face the owner of the voice. Holy fuck! James stood there. His appearance was a million miles away from his usual smart-casual or business attire. He had on leather trousers and a thick black leather collar, which had a silver ring attached to the front of it.
She’d been so busy taking in the sight of the man she’d been naked and in bed with just a month ago that she’d forgotten that he’d asked her a question. He, however, was determined to get a reply. “Fiona?” He shook her arm gently. “Are you listening to me?”
“Uhh…” Her mouth suddenly dry, she took a sip of her drink, swallowed, and tried again. “Sorry, I’m just a bit, um…surprised to see you here.”
“You’re surprised?” He led her to one side, out of the way of the milling people. “You know about me and Logan and our extracurricular activities. But you… Well, you said you didn’t have a clue about any of this stuff when I last saw you. So I think I’ve got more reason to be surprised.”
“James, what are you—?” Logan stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on Fiona’s face for a moment, before raking up and down the length of her body.
Oh, fucking hell. Just like before, her traitorous body reacted to a mere look. But this time it was heightened, more immediate, fiercer, probably because now, unlike last time, she knew exactly what this man—what both these men—were capable of. Of doing to her, with her, in front of her.
“Fiona?” Logan sounded even more shocked than James had. In fact, he sounded—and looked—utterly dumbfounded. She thought he’d have been less surprised to see the Pope standing there.
“Yes,” she replied, more steadily than she felt. “Hello, Logan. How are you?”
“How—how are you?” The words sounded as though they were being forced through a mangle. Good God, was he going to grab her by one of her pigtails and drag her out of here? The mixture of shock, confusion and fury on his face made him look as though he was capable of anything, and she really had no idea which way he was going to go.
Shooting a glance around them and noting a few people were giving them more than a passing look, she said, “Could you relax, please? We seem to be making a scene, and I’ve only just got here, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get me kicked out. Some of us don’t have bulging bank accounts—I’d like to get my money’s worth before I head home.”
Pressing his lips together in a firm line, Logan looked over at James and indicated that he should answer her. Apparently when it came to situations, James was the level-headed one.
“Sweetheart,” James said, running a hand through his hair, “though I don’t pretend to read Logan’s mind, I know him pretty well, and I suspect he’s feeling just the same as I am. Are you here alone?”
Fiona nodded, and James’ kissable lips pursed momentarily before he replied, “Well, that’s even worse.”
“It is?” she said, standoffishly. “So, just ’cause I’m dressed like this means you get to treat me like a naughty little girl, does it?”
Spluttering, he shook his head. “No, nothing like that. We’re just surprised to see you here—and concerned. And even more concerned that you’re here alone. Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
“Not a fucking clue,” she spat. “And whose fucking fault is that?”
“Right,” Logan interjected, the low level of his voice brooking no argument from either of them. “We’re leaving—now.” He held a finger up to stop Fiona interrupting. “Now. I’ll reimburse you the fucking entrance fee. Clearly, we need to talk.”
Chapter Eighteen
Despite being safe in the knowledge that neither James nor Logan would ever hurt her, Fiona experienced more than a frisson of fear as Logan led her back along the corridor, toward where she’d come into the club. James was close behind, and although he didn’t look as stern as his partner, a glance told her that he was far from happy. She really was not looking forward to the talk Logan had in mind.
Fifteen minutes later, and James and Logan were back in street clothing, and she’d replaced her shoes and socks with the flats she’d arrived in and hidden herself beneath the coat once more. She stared intently at the floor as she was all but frog-marched from the building, cheeks blazing, and handed into the rear of a black limousine.
With a man either side of her, Fiona had nowhere to run, to hide. Her blood boiled with a mixture of embarrassment and anger, and she had no idea how to express either of those emotions for the time being. She’d just have to wait and see what they had planned next, what information the talk uncovered.
Apparently the men either had too much
to say, or couldn’t decide where to start, because they remained resolutely silent.
Fiona gazed out of the windows, peering at the sights as they passed them by—the Thames, with the view down to the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye, the relatively nondescript streets of Pimlico and Victoria, the step upmarket as they glided past the rear wall of the Buckingham Palace estate, up to Hyde Park Corner and eventually back into the quieter, more reserved Mayfair.
As they grew closer to the hotel, Logan threw Fiona a look. “How did you get out of the hotel like that without anyone seeing you? I can’t imagine your bosses would be too impressed with one of their staff going about dressed that way.”
She gestured to the coat. “Quickly, and holding onto this bloody thing for dear life. If only I’d known you could get changed at the venue, it would have saved a lot of bloody embarrassment. The Tube journey was horrendous.”
Unless she was mistaken, the merest flicker of amusement crossed Logan’s face, but she couldn’t be sure, because no sooner had it arrived than it was gone, and the stony expression was back. “For all our sakes, I think we should go in separately. Perhaps you should use the staff entrance, Fiona? And take out those bloody pigtails. They’re damn cute, but they’ll attract attention. You may as well have a neon sign pointing at your head.”
Grumbling, she did as he said, stashing the hair bobbles in the tote bag. “Are you going to get the driver to drop me around back, then? I assume he’s discreet.”
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