The Club: Ethan

by Jenna Elliot

  “Will you?”

  I only smile, fold my arms across my chest and wait. I let the silence build as her only reply. Doesn’t take long before the tension’s electric.

  She flicks her gaze around the cubicle again, taking in all the sex toys around her. Her breath echoes audibly before she tosses her clothes out to me. Dress. Bra. Thong.

  “Good, babe. I know you have the courage to trust me.”

  “I really don’t,” she admits.

  “But you’re giving me your clothes anyway. Hmm . . . What shall I make of that?” I tap my cheek as if considering. “Either you’re in the habit of giving your clothes to a man while you await his next order . . .”

  “Of course not.”

  “Or you like this scene because feeling out of control excites you. Do you feel naughty, Mia? You don’t know what I’ll ask of you next, and it makes you wet, doesn’t it?”

  Now I see a flicker of doubt break her expression. “It really shouldn’t.”

  Which means it totally does. “I haven’t seen you nude yet, but my dick is as hard as rock thinking about you in there, imagining how beautiful you are. I know you are. My balls are so swollen and tight, and I can’t even see you.”

  Her mouth relaxes a little, and we’re on common ground again because I’ve confessed we’re in this together.

  “I want you to find the electric razor with the clipper attachment.”

  “Why?” Her brows raise just a bit at my request.

  Despite her best efforts, her face really is so expressive. I love watching the emotions play across her pretty features, and her attempts to resist revealing them.

  “Because I asked you to.”

  She turns away, treating me to the sight of her in profile as she complies.

  “Got it.”

  I remember fingering her at the bar and the feel of soft curls on her mons. I crave the intimacy of her skin against me. “Shave between your legs.”

  “What?” Her eyes go big.

  “I’ve shocked her. “Shave everything. “

  “But—”

  “You can’t cut yourself.”

  “I’ve never—”

  “Do it all by feel. I want your eyes on me.”

  “This is just so weird.”

  “Maybe a little, But I can’t wait to feel your sweet, very bare pussy.”

  A shy smile flashes. “Let’s hope I don’t make a big mess.”

  Sassy. I like it. She’s a little embarrassed, but a lot game. I’m pleased. The clipper hums and dark golden curls float to her feet. But the best sight is her face, her eyes shining with excitement.

  “Is the clipper vibrating against your skin?”

  “A little.”

  “Do the vibrations arouse you, Mia?”

  She arches a brow as if the answer should be self-evident and nods.

  “I think that’s it.” She turns off the clipper.

  “Put your fingers between your legs and see if anything’s left. I want you to touch yourself to be sure, press your fingers all the way back to your sweet little ass.”

  Her gaze goes all heavy-lidded as she strokes herself and when she shifts her gaze shyly, I can tell when she’s exploring her ass. Or maybe imagining me exploring her ass. Either way, I bet that’s more virgin terrain.

  I smile. “Anything left?”

  She shakes her head, still off balance.

  “Have you ever been so bare before?”

  “No, sir.”

  I distract her by saying, “There’s a gold container with silver lettering in there. Find it.”

  When she turns away, I shift around in the chair and stretch out my legs to ease the damned seam that’s biting into my crotch. Her show is killing me, and I haven’t even seen the goods yet. Christ, this is going to be a long night.

  “I got it.”

  I’ve found a little relief and am calm and controlled again when she turns around.

  “Apply the cream where you used the clipper. It’ll smooth away any hair that’s left. And give me a clean canvas.”

  She doesn’t have a response for that. I watch as she glances down, then reaches down . . . She gasps.

  “Cold?” I ask.

  “I’m a little sensitive, I think.”

  “Is the cream burning?”

  She frowns. “Is it supposed to?”

  “Just want to make sure you aren’t having an allergic reaction.”

  “If I am?”

  “I’ll rescue you.” I smile. “Allergic or just sensitive?”

  “I think . . .” She smiles back. “I’m just sensitive.”

  Eager is more like it. “Be thorough. There are wet cloths in the warmer to wipe off your hands. Any hair you miss can be waxed, of course. I’ll be happy to help you with that.”

  She tosses her blond hair over her shoulder. “Oh, I bet.”

  I chuckle. “The cream is less irritating than waxing. I want you comfortable, I promise. Then you can straddle my face, and I’ll soothe your skin with my mouth. Think about how nice that’ll feel.”

  Oh, she likes that. In the soft lighting, I can see the blush creeping into her cheeks, making her eyes light up.

  “I’ll press my tongue into all your soft places, Mia,” I tease. “I’ll make you very happy you shaved for me.”

  “How long until this is done?”

  “Impatient?”

  She doesn’t admit it. She only turns away and hides as best she can while cleaning her hands.

  “There’s a bowl of chocolate warming in the corner. See it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think a reward is in order for all your compliance.”

  “Chocolate is good,” she murmurs.

  “There’s a bowl of strawberries too. Take one and dip it in the chocolate.”

  She vanishes for a long moment.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Eating a strawberry.” She reappears, the tip of her tongue darting out to lick chocolate from her lip.

  This is my fault. My pet needs better instructions.

  “I didn’t tell you to eat it, now did I? Get another and perform for me. I want you to make a show of eating the strawberry. Seduce me with your mouth.”

  Understanding dawns on her lovely features. “Yes, sir. One more big chocolate strawberry coming up.”

  This time when she turns to face me, her eyes are alive. She holds the berry between two chocolate-covered fingers. First, she swirls the berry around her mouth, then she licks it. Her show might have been seductive if she could stop giggling.

  She can’t. I guess that laughter is masking her shyness, and I don’t know whether to laugh or discipline her. I laugh. I haven’t felt this amused in a long time.

  When she finishes the strawberry, she licks the chocolate from her fingers and looks straight at me. The little minx is still grinning. She can’t know how she’s twisting my insides, can she?

  “You like being told what to do. You like being pursued, don’t you?”

  “I like eating chocolate.” Her voice barely masks her laughter. “But really, what woman doesn’t like being chased?”

  I almost groan. “I’m awfully good at pursuit, baby doll, almost as good as getting what I want.”

  She must hear the threat in there because her smile slowly fades to be replaced by a quizzical look. “You knew I’d come to the club tonight, didn’t you?”

  I nod.

  “How is that even possible when I didn’t know myself?”

  I spread my hands in entreaty. “My point exactly.”

  She considers that. “Should I be worried you think I’m too easy?”

  Easy? My dick is about to fucking explode here. What part of this is easy?

  “Wash your hands in the sink and use the washcloth to clean the cream off your pussy,” I say more sharply than I intend.

  She gets busy, and I take the break to master my own mutinous reactions, to slow my breathing and shift some more in the chair. Ch
rist almighty, I’m horny tonight. And my own lack of control around this pet is testing me.

  “All done, sir.” She finally reappears, sounding hesitant and contrite.

  Which goes a long way to appease my pride.

  9

  Mia

  I STARE AT ETHAN over the doors to my cubicle. He’s so different here than he was on the road or at his shop. All the rough edges are gone. This morning, he challenged me and tempted me and seduced me. Tonight, he is so much more demanding, much more take charge.

  I should not be so aroused by this man who is really nothing more than a stranger, but I stand here naked in high heels, my crotch bald and vulnerable, staring into his unreadable expression.

  I must be crazy. He talks to me about the dirty things he wants to do to me, and I respond with an eagerness I’ve never dreamed of. I want more of this feeling. I want more of him. I want more of . . . whatever he suggests.

  The air makes my newly-bald skin tingle when he pushes out of the chair. My chest tightens around a breath, and I suddenly feel every inch of bare skin as he strolls toward the doors that are the only thing protecting me from his gaze.

  He comes so close that I can see the smoky ring of his iris and the scent of his spicy cologne mixed with liquor, the rich aroma of scotch. But he never looks down. He holds my gaze as steadily as if he’s not tempted by anything below my chin, or if he has a will of iron. I don’t have a clue which. Maybe both. The man belongs to a club where people parade around naked in leashes and nipple clamps. Maybe I haven’t even come close to tempting his particular tastes.

  That is one very sobering thought. The kind of thought that is both horrifying and challenging at the same time.

  “What do you want from me?” The question is out of my mouth before I have a chance to consider it. When his gaze narrows, I throw in a hasty, “Sir.”

  “I want to paint you.”

  A simple statement, but I frown, not entirely sure what he means. He paints cars as far as I know. “A portrait?”

  “Your skin.”

  Oh . . . my . . . God. Surely he doesn’t mean . . .

  He turns on his heel, giving me his back, the broad, broad shoulders outlined in the expensive suit.

  I couldn’t have heard him right.

  He sinks back in the chair in a fluid compression of contained energy and shifting muscle. It isn’t until he stares up expectantly that I comprehend exactly what he means, a mere second before . . .

  “Open the doors, Mia. Let me see my canvas.”

  Oh . . . my . . . God. My heart stops right there, just seizes in my chest. He won’t be sitting at an easel across the room . . . He’ll be touching me, painting my skin.

  The silence is deafening. His gaze challenges me. Suddenly, all I can think about is Emme somewhere in this club on red alert if I need her. Do I need her? He has gone all intense again, and it’s one thing when I’m in the heat of the moment, quite another when I’m the only one showing skin.

  He has already licked and touched every intimate inch of me, I remind myself. Ethan is giving life to so many dead places inside me. And I can always say no. He told me I can say no.

  He told me I wouldn’t want to.

  And he is right. I don’t. My bald pussy aches in the climate-controlled air. My body feels vulnerable and eager and hopeful for the promise of this man.

  Tightly closing my eyes, I am unable to face the moment, provoked to meet his challenge, yet not ready to face all the emotions storming through me.

  With trembling hands I reach out . . . The louvered doors open with a hush of air. Then . . . silence.

  I stand there unable to breathe, to open my eyes, consumed by the awareness that he watches me. I feel every inch of my nudity. The way the cycling air envelopes my bare legs in an artificial chill. The way my nipples tighten to taut peaks that spear eagerly toward him. The way my hands dangle awkwardly at my sides because I don’t know what to do with them. The way a heat from deep down inside me begins to flush my skin, to creep through me inch by careful inch from my toes to my cheeks.

  A heat that is part embarrassed flush and eager arousal from a place I never knew existed inside me.

  My breasts grow heavy in the silence that contradicts every storming emotion inside me. My head spins with every implication and outright threat he has made.

  Straddle his face . . .

  Press his tongue into all my soft places . . .

  Oh, God. My stomachs swoops wildly, and I’m sure he can see through me. He surely can see the way my breasts tremble when he startles the silence with a sharp command. “Turn around.”

  I take my first halting breath in forever, then pivot slowly until I face him once more, but I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t look at him, can all-too-easily imagine the way I must appear to him with my bare ass and bald pussy, showcased in nothing but high heels that I’ll never be able to wear again without remembering how vulnerable I feel, how erotic.

  “Do you want me to paint you?” he asks.

  And give him a bare canvas.

  He mentioned that earlier, and now I know what he means. He’s an artist. I shouldn’t be shocked that he wants to use my naked flesh as his canvas. It means he thinks I’m beautiful, right?

  The idea of him painting my breasts, my ass, and my newly-bald mons sends a spray of goose bumps over my skin.

  Can he tell?

  I imagine what it will feel like for him to paint me. His gaze focusing on me while he works. His fingers steady as he strokes a brush over my skin. The paint moist and supple on the newly-primed surfaces of my body.

  My pussy dampens. There’s only one thing I can do.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look at me, Mia.” His command shocks the quiet, makes my nerves jangle. I know he can see the way I jump, the way my breasts tremble with the motion.

  Something so simple as opening my eyes takes every shred of my will. But I tip up my chin, force open my eyes, and face him.

  The expression on his face takes my breath away.

  The granite edges of his expression are softened in desire. His mouth is parted as if he wants to kiss me everywhere. The look in his melting eyes make me feel beautiful. More beautiful than I ever dreamed I could be.

  “You’ll be my masterpiece.” His voice is gravelly and low.

  And in this moment, I believe him. With my whole heart and soul, I believe the look in his eyes.

  It’s the only thing that gives me courage when he pushes to his feet, strides toward me.

  I brace myself. I have no clue what he’ll do, but every nerve inside quivers with anticipation.

  He only reaches for my hand, slides his strong fingers around mine, and lifts them toward his mouth. There’s something so reverent about the way he bends low to brush his mouth across my knuckles that I reply without thinking, without permission. I place my hand on the top of his head, stroke the shiny dark hair, a touch of reassurance, no less reverent in my own way.

  Then the moment ends. He twines those strong fingers through mine in an unbreakable grip and suddenly, we’re in motion. I gasp as he leads me from the dressing room butt-naked, and we enter the hallway we arrived through.

  The lighting is low, but I can hear the sounds of the band and all the people on the dance floor. My breasts are bouncing crazily, almost painfully, and I can feel every inch of my nakedness as if I were running along with transparent skin.

  My impulse is to freak, but I’m so busy steadying myself on my heels to keep up with him that I’m too flustered to do anything more than pray to God we don’t run into anyone.

  Emme will flip out completely if she sees me running naked through this place. She’ll get her brothers to kill Ethan, and they’ll either die trying, or kill him. Either way, there’ll be a scene. All the sordid details of my encounter with this stranger are bound to get out. I’ll wind up explaining to Mr. and Mrs. LeBlanc why their sons died to save my questionable honor, or facing my parents with an explanation about
why I was in a sex club. Both are unthinkable.

  And just as I’m convinced I’m going to faint again—this time from anxiety—Ethan pulls me through another door and we’re out of the hallway. Thank God.

  “Sit there,” he directs, pointing to a stool.

  I barely get a chance to glance around at what appears to be a small studio before he has me in the chair and is pumping the stool to raise me up. I take in all the equipment, the paints, the brushes, the sink, and realize Ethan isn’t only a paying member of this sex club, but a seriously-paying member.

  The realization that the man keeps a studio here distracts me from my embarrassment, and deflates me, too.

  Does Ethan paint all his pets?

  So, what if he does? This is a sex club, and he is a man with singular tastes. He didn’t have to stop when I ran my Jeep into a ditch. He didn’t have to fuck me on the side of the road or invite me to this club. I simply can’t impose the yardstick from my former relationships onto this . . . whatever this is.

  A game? A fling?

  Both?

  I simply don’t know. But I’m not stupid. I do know that my previous ideas about normal won’t apply here. They just won’t work. Ethan is right again—I do have to trust him. This is all new to me, and so far, I like the way I feel. I can’t get ahead of myself. I can’t overthink things. That would be the kiss of death, and we haven’t really started yet. I haven’t officially agreed to be his pet.

  The thought calms my anxiety and assuages my pride.

  I am entirely capable of learning new rules, I tell myself, then focus my attention back on Ethan. He fusses with his paints and brushes, so I take this welcome chance to study him. He has such a commanding presence, one that exudes self-confidence. Whether he’s pulling my Jeep out of a ditch, fixing my broken fender flare, or making me cum, he’s a master. No wasted motions. Totally in command.

  In some ways, he scares me. He wants everything his way. And yet, his way is bringing me to life. I’ve never felt this way, so engaged in the present. I’m thinking about now. Not angsting about my life or worrying about the future.