by Nikki Sloane
“You knew who I was?”
Julius’s hand tensed, his fingers digging into my muscle, and I fought the urge to wince. I couldn’t blame him. My thoughtless question reinforced how I’d tried to deceive.
“We’re a private club,” he said, “with clients who like their privacy.”
“Do you think you’re the first reporter to come along?” she asked.
“What’s that phrase?” Julius’s deep voice brimmed with threat. “Catch and kill.”
Fucking fuck. I stopped breathing, and when I tried to take a step back, his grip on my shoulder reminded me I wasn’t going anywhere.
“This club, and the people here, are important to me. I’m going to protect them with all I got. You feel me?” He slid his free hand into the interior pocket of his suit coat, pulled out my phone, and shoved it painfully into my chest. “You don’t come here again. You don’t even think about this club again. You so much as say its name, and a copy of the video we took tonight is gonna wind up with someone you don’t want it to.”
“Like your boss,” the redhead added. “Or the Chicago police department.”
His expression went dark, and if I were a smaller guy, I might have shit myself. “Or maybe one of the clients here who isn’t as nice as I am. We understand each other?”
I eagerly took my phone and jammed it in my pocket. “Yes.”
Julius looked barely satisfied. “Good. Then, get the fuck outta my club.”
-4-
Tara
The numbness from the ice on my mosquito bite had worn off, as had the distraction of the guy going down on me, so my ankle itched again. I twisted against the straps, frustrated I couldn’t get to do what I wanted, which was ironic. It was precisely why I came to the club, week after week.
To surrender. Being under someone else’s control was where I thrived.
What was going on out in the hall? It was always hard to tell when I was on the table, because time seemed to suspend beneath the blindfold, but Regan and the guy had been gone awhile. Definitely longer than a minute.
In my three years at the club, I’d only had a guy pulled from the room once. He didn’t have the funds in his account to match his bid, and after some renegotiation, he’d been let back in. Was that what was going to happen? I hoped so. The man tonight knew how to eat pussy, and I wanted him to finish what he’d started.
I couldn’t hear anything from the hall once Regan had ushered the guy out and shut the door behind them. The rooms were soundproofed. I never heard moans or screams from the other rooms while the club was operating. While the idea sounded sexy to me, I could understand it didn’t appeal to everyone.
Most of the men who came here wanted to feel like they were the center of the universe. It was all about him and how amazing he was at fucking the nearly faceless girl on the table.
Too bad it was hardly ever true.
The door opened with a whoosh and high heels tapped across the floor toward me. “Tara, you okay?”
We used fake names around the clients, so the fact Regan had said my real name was a bad sign.
“I’m fine.” Except for the stupid mosquito bite. Christ, I was never going outside again. “What’s going on?”
Fingers latched onto the end of my wrist strap and tugged the Velcro open with a loud ripping sound. “The guy wasn’t who he said he was. Julius threw him out.”
I lay motionless in surprise as Regan undid my other restraint. No, my body screamed. The anticipation for the orgasm still buzzed in my system, leaving me edgy. “The deal’s off?”
“Yeah.” She slipped the blindfold up onto my forehead, and I blinked rapidly against the light to bring her gorgeous face into view. Her smile was coy as she leaned in and whispered in my ear. “But there’s good news. You’ll come over later tonight, and Silas and I can finish what he started.”
She didn’t touch me, other than her soft breath rolling over my skin, because she never did when we were at the club, but energy ran along my nerves like static electricity. All from the authoritative tone of her command, and the promise of pleasure.
“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered back.
No one knew about us at the club. Not that they’d judge us, but because it wasn’t their business. Also, as soon as she and her boyfriend Silas had become my doms, their first order was that we kept what we did secret. Regan was the best sales assistant here, and I assumed she didn’t want people thinking she played favorites.
I sat up on the table and tucked my legs beneath me as she went to the hook on the back of the door and pulled down the silk robe hanging there. My disappointment vanished that the customer with the great tongue was gone and was immediately replaced with excitement.
It had been weeks since Regan, Silas, and I had gotten to play together. We didn’t scene on the nights I took clients, and business had been steady. The plus side was all the work made it easier now to go a night without making a sale.
She handed me the robe as her gaze lingered over me, and I felt flushed. With men, it was different. I was a beautiful woman, and they were hardwired to respond to that. Their appreciative stares gave me power and confidence. But with Regan? It caught me off guard. Like a thrilling, unexpected drop on a rollercoaster.
She left me breathless.
“I’ve got another appointment at midnight,” she said, meaning another deal she’d try to negotiate for one of the other girls. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”
I slipped on the robe and climbed down off the table, grinning. “I can’t wait.”
My upstairs neighbors were loud, but it wasn’t their fault. I heard them when they were screwing, or fighting, or just putting away groceries in the kitchen, thanks to the thin walls and creaky old floor overhead. We’d seen each other several times in the hallway or by the mailbox, but never officially met. It didn’t really matter since I knew everything about Brad and Hector.
As I came in my front door, the chandelier over my dining room table rattled. Heavy, deliberate footsteps stomped out, moving from the kitchen, to the bedroom, and back out into the living room.
Uh oh. Hector’s pissed about something.
I set down my purse, fished out my phone, and put on some music to mask the argument brewing upstairs. They were a handsome couple, but theirs was a volatile love. I stepped out of my heels and carried my phone into my bedroom, heading straight for the journal in my nightstand drawer.
The habit had developed way back when I started at the blindfold club. I’d needed to keep track of how many clients I was seeing and how much money they’d bid, because once I got a few regulars, I needed to make sure the offers stayed consistent. If I took one too low, I’d doom myself to that new price point.
I jotted down extra details too, although I wasn’t sure why. It felt good to put it all down on paper. Some nights I’d end up with pages and pages of notes. I wrote down everything, even who I thought they might be, since a lot of politicians and celebrities had memberships.
I grabbed the black journal and a pen and flopped down on my unmade bed. I scribbled the date at the top of the page and put down the original price of fifteen hundred, then scrawled beneath it how the deal had been called off.
In the apartment above, Hector’s stomp-fest continued, matching the tempo of the music I was listening to while I wrote. My pen scratched across the blue-lined paper, filling the page with all the details I could remember from the night. How the man had hesitated at first. How he’d used the ice. And of course, how his mouth brought me to the brink of an orgasm.
Damn, couldn’t Julius have waited ten more seconds before pulling the deal? Or had Regan pushed for it? The woman did love to delay my pleasure.
Thoughts of her and Silas had me hurrying along. Her text could come any minute, and I needed to get ready. I finished my notes, tucked the journal back into its spot, and hustled over to my dresser.
My lingerie drawer was comical. On the left side, it
was sports bras and shapewear and the ugly-ass underwear I wore when I knew no one was going to see it. On the right it was all lace and straps and mesh.
I stared at my options as I shimmied out of the red, low-cut dress I’d worn to the club. Even though the clients never saw our clothes, we girls dressed to impress. What better way to feel sexy before a night of dirty, raunchy sex?
The raspberry colored bra and panty set was my favorite, but . . . hadn’t I worn it last time I’d gone over to Regan’s place? It’d been so long, I wasn’t sure. Instead, I grabbed the bra that was sapphire blue satin beneath black lace.
As I dressed, my gaze drifted over to the full-length mirror on my wall, and up to the envelope taped to the glass, the words ‘FILL ME OUT’ scrawled in black marker on the front. Inside was the application to audition for Dance Dreams, which was at least ten pages long.
I could pick up complicated choreography in minutes, not to mention wrangle an eight-inch dick, but this application? It was daunting.
Crap, I needed to stop ignoring the paperwork and just do it. I’d already picked my audition music, ‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay, assuming I’d make it that far in the process. Most people didn’t get a solo performance—they were cut in the group round. I told myself I wasn’t allowed to start choreographing the routine, the part I was most looking forward to, until I’d finished my least favorite part.
Tomorrow. I’d reward myself when it was done and would book some practice space at my best friend Elena’s dance studio.
My gaze dropped from the envelope to the mirror and, as I’d been trained to do for years, I scrutinized my posture and lines. I worked very hard and had a killer figure, but . . . would my twenty-eight-year-old body be able to compete with the dancers in high school and college? I pushed the question out of my mind. Negative thinking wasn’t going to help.
My phone chimed with an incoming text message.
Regan: I’m leaving the club now.
I stared at my reflection, all wrapped in satin and lace, and wondered how long I’d have this lingerie on. My cheeks warmed in excitement. Hopefully, not long at all.
Tara: On my way.
-5-
Tara
Unlike the rest of the girls at the club, Regan didn’t sell her body. Typically, we rotated between the jobs, since two gorgeous women put us at an advantage over the men when negotiating. She was exclusively a sales assistant, which meant she didn’t pull in the kind of money I did. But she also had a day job as an accountant for some stuffy firm in the heart of downtown, so her apartment was nice.
She was waiting for me at the front door after buzzing me up, a glass of white wine in each hand. She still had on the silk blouse and the short, high-waisted skirt she wore at the club. Her legs looked long and smooth, ending in a pair of strappy heels.
I took the glass she offered and glanced around the large, open living area. “Where’s Silas?”
“Still at his gallery, but he should be here soon. He’s been working on that piece for forever.”
Regan’s boyfriend had gotten his start with tattoos, but he used anything and everything to make his art. Paint. Photographs. Sculpture. He was successful enough to own his own gallery, and nearly every wall of this apartment was decorated by something he’d created. Even Regan and I—we both had his ink embedded in our skin.
“Have you seen it?” I asked. “How’s it coming?”
Her blue eyes were the same color as steel. “I don’t want to talk about his work right now. I want you to finish your wine and get on your knees.”
She’d already started her shift into domme, and as I followed her order, I fell into my role. A calm flooded along my body when I set the glass to my lips and drank. There was freedom in being in someone else’s control. I didn’t have to worry about my safety, my actions, or my enjoyment. That responsibility became hers.
It was almost identical to when I danced someone else’s choreography. I was moving under their direction, performing how they wanted, and the better I did, the more pleasure it brought both of us.
The skirt of my red dress rode up on my thighs when I set my empty glass down on the coffee table and knelt beside it, my knees spread and head tipped down. Regan drew in a deep, audible breath, as if the sight of me in my submissive pose gave her power.
For a long moment, there was no sound. She was either drinking her wine, or simply watching me. I grew damp and achy between my legs.
Her shadow fell on me as she finally sauntered my direction, and I stared at the nail polish on my hands splayed out on the tops of my thighs, waiting with tight lungs for her to either touch me or issue a new command.
“The man tonight. How was he?” Her voice was casual.
“He was fine.”
She stopped moving, and although I could only see her feet, I knew I’d given the wrong answer. “Hands on the ground,” she barked. “Ass up.”
I did as told, and once I was on all fours, she walked behind me and yanked up the back of my dress. Cool air seeped through the thin lace of my panties, but only for a second. It was instantly followed by the sharp slap of her palm.
“Don’t lie to me, Tara. You fucking liked it.”
“Yes,” I breathed.
She spanked me again, but this one didn’t have the same bite as the first one. “He almost made you come, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
She swatted at me a third time and left her hand flat against my backside. “But you didn’t. He left you there, hanging.”
“Yes, Mistress.” My voice was thick with desire.
“You poor thing. Let me help you.” Her fingers slid down, caressing the crotch of my panties, rubbing me gently through the damp lace. “There. Isn’t that better?”
Heat pooled low in my belly, and I rocked my hips, grinding against her featherlight touch that felt good, but only made me want more. I stretched my back and hung my head, my blonde hair spilling onto the carpet below me.
Maybe she had an advantage because she was a woman, but Regan knew her way around my body. She jerked my underwear down and out of her way as she knelt beside me, strumming her fingers over my clit. She used her other hand to push my hair off the back of my neck and leaned over, setting her lips on the newly exposed skin.
Her kisses and soft bites trailed down my spine and up again as she worked two of her fingers inside my greedy body. Yes, I sighed, although I wasn’t sure if it was out loud. I swallowed thickly to regain some composure, because the sensation of her moving in me felt so good. “Thank you, Mistress.”
“Hmm,” she murmured at the side of my neck. “You’re very welcome.”
She pushed and pulled her fingers, moving faster and more deliberately until I was a gasping, quivering mess, balancing right on the edge of orgasm. We hadn’t played together that often, but she must have known, or perhaps I had a very loud signal that I was close. She slapped her fingertips against my throbbing, neglected clit, then abruptly drew away and climbed to her feet.
“The bedroom.” Her voice was taut with need. “Everything you’re wearing stays here. You’ll be ready for him when he gets home.”
I wanted to smile as I pushed up to stand and seized the bottom hem of my dress. I knew the lingerie wouldn’t stay on long.
She didn’t take any of her clothes off. Regan grabbed her unfinished glass of wine from the kitchen table and followed me as I practically galloped down the hall and dove into her big bed.
Her wine was deposited on the nightstand, and steady feet carried her back to the front of the bed where she could loom over me. I was kind of glad she hadn’t changed out of her clothes. She looked so good like this, all prim and proper, just a bit too sexy to fulfill a school teacher fantasy. Although, if I asked her to punish me with a ruler, I was sure she’d be happy to.
Maybe next time.
I lay on my back and bent my legs, drawing my knees up, and bared everything to her. There wasn’t s
hame here in her apartment, or at the club, and I’d grown so comfortable in who I was these days, I doubted I’d feel it anyway. She gave me an eager smile as she placed her hands on my knees.
Had she wanted this as badly as I did? Did she need it?
I hoped doing a scene tonight would satisfy our cravings, but was it like a mosquito bite? Where once you scratched, it only itched more?
Down her hands went as she smoothed them along the insides of my thighs, and she put a knee on the mattress, lowering in. My heart skipped along faster, thumping a quick rhythm.
Her soft lips pressed to the spot where my leg joined my body, teasing me, and a quiet whine bubbled out of my mouth. I’d done enough waiting. I’d been a good girl, hadn’t I? I deserved to get my reward. A wicked chuckle drifted from her like she was a mind reader, and then she finally closed in.
“Oh, thank you,” I gasped.
Her tongue swirled over my clit, shooting sparks of pleasure down my legs. It felt so impossibly great, but at the same time, my body hesitated as I lurched toward release. I’d been fooled twice now with stalled orgasms, so she was going to have to work for it.
I slipped a hand into her fire-colored locks, holding her mouth to me and not caring if she was going to slap my directing hand away. She almost always straightened her hair with a flat iron, but it looked nice when she left it naturally curly too. I was a little obsessed with her hair, and a lot obsessed with my relationship with her and Silas.
But . . .
Not in an emotional way. They had each other for that, and honestly, I had very little in common with either of them. Regan and I worked at the club and were both bisexual, but that was it. I was a free-spirited dancer, who wore provocative clothes, never fit in, and stopped trying to years ago. She hid behind the buttoned-down accountant lifestyle, unless she was at the club. While Silas was a creative type, our similarities ended there.
I was submissive down to my bones, and she and Silas couldn’t stand the idea of giving up control. So, our “relationship” was about sexual enjoyment and power exchange. And that worked great for both of us.