Ainsley realized while she appreciated some aspects of a well-ordered life, there was something missing in hers. Passion. Excitement. Spontaneity.
One night, in year four, she’d decided to rev up their sex life. She stripped in the living room in front of the TV, dropped to all fours and asked Dean to fuck her from behind.
Flustered by her crude demand, Dean refused.
She tried again a few weeks later, on the way home from a cocktail party. Tipsy and feeling naughty, she tried to give Dean a blowjob in their Volvo.
Flustered once again, Dean refused.
The following month her attempt to entice him into light bedroom bondage using his Brooks Brothers’ ties netted the same result: a big fat no. As did her suggestion that he punish her wanton, wicked ways with a spanking.
At that point Dean suggested she needed counseling.
At that point Ainsley suggested he needed Viagra.
And that’s when their supposedly perfect marriage fell apart. Not only because Ainsley craved variety in the bedroom, but the way she’d voiced her concerns to her husband—he wasn’t seeing to her needs—had put Dean on the defensive. He became cruel. Cutting. Condescending. What she saw as an attempt to improve the intimacy in their marriage Dean saw as her attempt to force him into becoming a type of man he wasn’t. A type of man he’d never be.
So for all her bold talk, in the last year and a half since her divorce, Ainsley hadn’t done a single thing to take charge of her sexuality except increase her collection of vibrators.
One night after an extra glass of liquid courage, she’d asked Layla for advice on how to kink up her sex life. Because Layla’s relationship with her longtime squeeze, Murphy, was kinky indeed—Layla was a fulltime submissive and Murphy was her dominant.
It’d been difficult wrapping her head around the concept; Layla willingly ceded control to Murphy in all aspects of her life—not just sexually. When Layla had lived in Denver, Ainsley had known Murphy worked in a club, but not what kind of club. But she’d never imagined a sex club, because she had no flipping clue places like that even existed outside fictional novels.
She planned to get a real education about it tonight.
She scooped up Layla’s risqué lingerie and slunk into the bathroom. She stripped and added a piece at a time, ignoring the pooch in her belly. Next week she really had to start working out again. The kimono hit mid thigh and adequately covered her jiggly ass. Five minutes after her thirty-seventh birthday her body had started to sag like an ugly old couch. Not that she’d ever in her life been a toned size two.
Now is not the time to revisit your body issues. Think sexy, act sexy, be sexy.
Once she’d tugged on her outfit, she pinned up her hair, securing it with a hairnet. She unzipped the bag and slipped the wig from the Styrofoam dummy’s head, settling it onto her own.
After jabbing a million bobby pins into her scalp, Ainsley angled closer to the mirror, smoothing flyaway strands with her fingers. The sleek wig was shoulder length, coal black with jagged ends dyed blood red. It was funky, hip and fun. No one would mistake it for her real hair, but wasn’t that the point of tonight? To be daring and eccentric? She was fully incognito in this get-up. She doubted her cats would recognize her.
Two raps on the door were her only warning before Layla burst in. “Are you… My God, what the fuck is that thing on your head?”
Not exactly the reaction she’d hoped for. “I’m embracing my inner Sydney Bristow.”
Layla grabbed her upper arms and circled her slowly before stopping in front of her.
“So? Do I look ridiculous?”
“No. It just shocked me. But I’ve gotta say, the wig is perfect with the clothes I brought. Wow, A, you look fantastic.”
“Really?”
“Scouts honor. You always look nauseatingly well put together. I like seeing this other side of you.”
“What other side? Nuttier? Sluttier?”
“Younger. More playful. Now don’t glare at me. I know you’re a professional woman and all, but, girlfriend, there’s no reason not to show a little skin after that bank vault closes. You’re sporting one of those curvy hourglass bodies that men go wild for.”
Wasn’t that “hourglass figure” phrase a euphemism for…fat?
“Don’t hide it. Flaunt it.”
Ainsley wasn’t the flaunt it type.
Or maybe you are. Age and size ain’t nothin’ but numbers.
“Let’s hit the road. The club is about to open and Murphy is getting all snappy and threatening because I’m not there.”
Here was the opening she’d waited for. “Layla, can I ask you something?”
“Yes, I have time to do your make-up before we go.” She pointed to the toilet seat. “Sit.”
Ainsley closed her eyes when Layla hovered over her with brushes, powders and eyeliner. “Thanks, but that wasn’t the question I meant. I want to know about your relationship with Murphy. He seems awfully controlling.”
“That’s the definition of a dominant.”
She struggled to find the wording that wouldn’t piss off her friend but would also give her the information she’d always been too shy to ask about. “He doesn’t like, hurt you or anything if he doesn’t get his way, does he?”
“Are you asking if he beats me if I’ve done something to piss him off?”
“Yes.”
Layla swept a long, wet line of make-up across Ainsley’s eyelids near her lash line. “Don’t open your eyes for a minute.”
“Okay.”
“Murphy has never raised his hand to me in anger. It would destroy him to hurt me. But you have to understand that his use of whips, floggers and other instruments are part of our life. I ask him to restrain me and leave welts and marks on my skin.”
“Why?”
“The pain takes me to a place where I can truly let go of the control I’ve tried to maintain in all areas of my life since I was a little girl.”
Could a little pain really do that? Make Ainsley forget everything? Allow her to exist solely in the moment? Not worry about anything except when the next smack or lash would land? Why did that appeal to her so much? And why was she so embarrassed to admit that to anyone? She’d even led Layla to believe she wanted to explore her dominant tendencies, when submission interested her far more.
Isn’t the whole point of this to learn who you really are? If you’re capable of letting go? How can you be honest with anyone else when you’re still lying to yourself?
“I’ve had some bad things in my past,” Layla said softly.
“Oh, Layla. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“No one knew because I excelled at keeping stuff hidden. But it was crippling me. I didn’t talk about it at all. My way to deal with it was with physical punishment. Making myself hurt as bad on the outside as I did on the inside. That’s how I ended up hanging out at hardcore bondage clubs and letting any man or woman use me as their whipping post. But I’d reached the point where I didn’t feel pain. One night I hooked up with a Dom who started to beat me severely and I didn’t do anything to stop him. But Murphy stepped in. He became my savior in so many ways.
“After he cleaned me up, he took me to his place. This big bear of a man was a total stranger to me and I felt safer with him than I’d felt with anyone. I slept for twenty-four hours straight. When I woke up, he wouldn’t allow me to put up my usual defenses. He talked to me. He made me talk to him.” Soft bristles swept over Ainsley’s cheekbone. “There was something about his voice that encouraged me, soothed me, made me want to please him, made me trust him. Anyway, I told him things I’d never shared with anybody. Things even I’d forgotten. And after I went through a whole box of tissues after sobbing for hours, and my throat was raw from talking for hours, he scooped me into his arms and just held me. For hours.”
Ainsley withheld her questions, hard as that was.
“Murphy had been a Dom for a decade at that point. He’d never considered takin
g on a sub fulltime until he met me. His brother Rafe is a counselor. After my meltdown I spent time talking to Rafe alone, and with Murphy. While all this soul searching stuff was going on, I fell in love with Murphy.” She sniffled. “Totally, completely in love with the gentle giant who had such a code of honor that he didn’t touch me at all.”
“How long did that last?”
“Six months. Murphy took me to clubs where I could see other kinds of play. Play where a Dom administering pain was a preface for sexual pleasure for the sub. Without getting into too many details, it made me hot. And wet. Two things I’d never felt when the whip scored my skin. When he saw my reaction, he knew I was ready to experience the difference with him. It changed my life. So, the long answer to your question is no, Murphy would never abuse me. He gets me. He loves me. We give each other exactly what the other needs.” She sniffled again. “You can open your eyes now.”
Ainsley looked at Layla.
“Be honest with me. Why are you interested in experiencing any of this? I see a look of revulsion in your eyes, Ainsley.”
“It’s more confusion than revulsion. I don’t know why some of this appeals to me so much.” She glanced away with embarrassment.
“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Layla asked.
Yes. “I’m relieved your story has a happy ending. I never understood why you just quit your job so abruptly.”
“Maybe it seemed fast on the outside, but things hadn’t been going well at the bank for awhile. I was more than ready to walk away and start my life over with Murphy. Our relationship might not be the norm, but it works for us. What is normal? And who the hell has the right to define what it is anyway?” Layla smiled slyly. “And yes, I am happy. And I want you to be happy too.”
Ainsley doubted she’d ever find happiness in a man whipping her on a regular basis.
Judgmental much? You’re just scared of the unknown.
“Let’s go. You’re driving.” At the door, Layla said, “Oops, I forgot one thing.” She handed Ainsley a gold wristband. “Since you’re still on the fence about what you want, at least try and act like you deserve to wear this tonight.”
Ainsley squinted through the windshield at the building across the street. Rawhide Bar was burned into a gigantic wooden sign and outlined with rope-like neon tubing. “This is just a bar.”
Layla sighed. “What were you expecting?”
“A buzzing neon sign with an arrow pointing the way to a dark and dirty sex club, hidden in an alley. Scantily clad, red-lipped women smoking cigarettes and eyeing their next sexual conquest while the greasy bouncer swigged from a flask.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but the Rawhide Bar has been here for over a hundred years.”
“It has? How’s that possible?”
“The Rawhide is two separate entities. The club portion harkens back to the days when a brothel operated out of the hotel side. Of course, they couldn’t call it a brothel, so they called it a gentleman’s club. The owners charged a membership fee, and the city provided the Rawhide with its own charter that’s still in effect today.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Cody and Trace’s great-grandfather was the founder. So when the boys of this generation decided to bring back the club aspect in a discreet and exclusive manner, it was all perfectly legal because the charter never expires as long as an original family member owns the building and business inside.”
“I wondered how a place like this survived in a smaller town like Gillette without rousing local suspicions. So neither their father nor their grandfather ran any type of club from here when they were in charge?”
“The Depression hit them pretty hard. Then the country went to war. I guess they had a bi-weekly poker club for a few years in the 50s and 60s, complete with cocktail servers who dressed like Playboy Bunnies. Who knows what else went on in the private rooms? They turned the hotel side into a flophouse in the 70s and 80s during the oil boom. Then after the energy bust, that side sat idle until Cody and Trace’s dad retired and moved to Arizona.”
“And yet the Rawhide Bar survived?”
“Mostly because it is a regular local bar that anyone can wander into and buy a drink. The club part is completely separate.”
Ainsley pulled her coat around her skimpy clothes. “And who makes up the majority of the members?”
“A few locals. Most are from out of town. Some from out of state.”
“How do potential new members hear about this place?”
“It’s not easy, since members have to sign a bunch of privacy and nondisclosure forms. Clientele recommendations come from managers of clubs like this in other parts of the country. Some members will talk to Murphy about someone they think might be a good fit for the club. Then Murphy investigates them. If he has enough interested parties, we host a guest night. In the last two years we’ve gained thirty new members.”
“No problems with Jim Bob blabbing at the town diner that he saw Betty Sue getting screwed silly by a man who wasn’t her husband?”
Layla laughed. “Not in the six years we’ve been here. But there are stringent rules, because a place like this is so hard to find, especially in rural America. The members are very protective of this place and the people they’ve connected with here. I know several female members who trust a Dom with a flogger or a whip, but they haven’t exchanged last names. First names only. No sharing of personal information unless it’s mutually agreed upon. And then only if Murphy is aware they’ll be meeting outside the club. There isn’t a lot of bullshit because all the members are here for the same thing.”
“Which is?”
“Sex with varying levels of kink. Sex without strings.”
Ainsley met Layla’s curious stare. “What?”
“Nice job distracting me and stalling for time. I bet I sounded like a tour guide, breaking down every single thing and providing historical footnotes.” Layla struck a pose. “And here we have a spanking bench covered in the softest cowhide. Look at the manacles, lined with rich Cordovian leather. Only the best at the Rawhide Club.”
“Did you notice the words to that TV ditty are kinda dirty?” Ainsley belted out, “Head ’em up, move ’em in, move ’em out…Rawhide!”
Layla groaned. “I am so glad there’s no karaoke at this place.”
She smirked. “Let’s mosey on in and find us a cowboy to ride until our hides are raw.”
Chapter Three
Ben was contemplating sub choices when a flash of red caught his eye. He swiveled on his barstool to watch the siren in the silk kimono saunter through the room.
Oh hell yeah, his night had just improved tenfold.
She perched on the edge of her barstool, every inch of her so prim and proper Ben’s fingers itched to muss her up.
After he watched her for a few minutes, he asked Murphy, “Who is the hot number in red with Layla?”
“Her name is Angel.”
“Angel,” rolled off his tongue. Perfect name for her. Sipping his beer, he focused entirely on her. Lush body, lush mouth. Great smile. Expressive eyes. She was off-the-scale sexy in his opinion. So why the hell was the woman wearing a wig? Not a subtle one, but a sleekly styled black wig, the last inch of hair dyed candy-apple red. Was she trying to look dangerous? Hip? Naughty?
Be interesting to coax the truth from her. Some very interesting extraction techniques popped into Ben’s head.
She must’ve sensed him staring at her because she turned and met his gaze head on. Their eyes remained locked for several long moments as Ben waited for her to lower her gaze—as he was accustomed. But she returned his intense eye-fuck full bore until Layla demanded her attention.
Holy shit. Dismissive wasn’t a reaction Ben usually got, especially not in here. And that intrigued the hell out of him. Casually, he said to Murphy, “Introduce me to her.”
Murphy sighed. “She’s not for you.”
“Why not? Has she already picked someone for tonight?”
“Not exactly.”
Ben faced Murphy. “Then exactly what’s the problem?”
A devious smile appeared. “She’s not here as a sub.”
“She’s a guest?” Ben frowned.
“Nope.”
“She’s here as special entertainment?” That’d explain her wacky get-up. Some clubs in bigger cities had themed nights where members dressed up. Cody and Trace had threatened to try it at the Rawhide, but Ben secretly didn’t believe that’d fly in Gillette, Wyoming. Then again, he hadn’t been around to voice his opinion in the last month.
“No,” Murphy said. “And she’s not here to bartend, waitress or clean the bar.”
Which left one other possibility but Ben couldn’t wrap his head around it. “She’s here as a…Domme?” After Murphy nodded, Ben’s jaw dropped. “No. Fucking. Way. A Domme. In the Rawhide.”
“Evidently.”
“And you know she’s had experience as a Domme?”
“Some.”
The woman’s defiant stare-down notwithstanding, Ben demanded, “How much?”
That hard look entered Murphy’s eyes. “I’ve told you as much as I can, Bennett—” he emphasized Ben’s preferred official club title, “—the rest you’ll have to get from her. And you know the rules since you had a heavy hand establishing them, so tread lightly. I have no issue throwing your ass out if you think you’re above the rules.”
As designated club head master, Murphy screened all applicants thoroughly. He kept the club balanced with the ratio of Doms to subs. He ran the club with an iron fist and a closed mouth. Which sucked balls right now, because Ben wanted to know everything about this supposed Domme.
Of course the goddamn rules came back to bite him in the ass the one time he needed to break one. Besides the first rule—everything that happened in the Rawhide Club was consensual—and the second rule—complete confidentiality and discretion among all members inside and outside the club—there was a third rule that stated—the members who wanted to publicly or privately play decided their own roles within the club: dominant, submissive or switch. Each designation had its own power and demanded its own respect.
Cowboy Casanova: Rough Riders, Book 12 Page 2