by Lila Dubois
Christiana smiled briefly. “It’s fine. Your outfit is really pretty.”
“Your outfit is really pretty”? Ugh. Christiana, you’re an idiot. You should have at least said sexy.
Cheryl struck a pose, then walked over to the vanity, checking her lipstick. Pink Glasses had her boots off, and was now pulling off the knee-high nylons she’d had on underneath. She stuffed the footwear into the locker and then stripped off her bra and panties, unashamedly naked. She pulled a large zipper bag out of her fashionable tote-like purse. Removing a bottle of lotion, she smoothed it along her legs, then over her totally hairless pussy, before continuing north. Christiana knew she was staring, and didn’t want to be awkward. She took a few steps and sat on the edge of a cream leather chair, staring at her knees, but watching the other submissives get ready out of the corner of her eye.
After she was completely lotioned, Pink Glasses pulled some lingerie out of the pouch. She fitted a brown leather piece over her breasts. It looked like a hybrid between a strapless bra and a corset. The cups were molded to cup and lift her breasts, the bottom of it coming to just above the bellybutton. It closed up the back with rough-hewn brown ribbon.
The man, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs, started lacing her up, until Cheryl wandered over to finish while he stripped off his underwear. Once the corset piece was on, Cheryl knelt and held the panties so Pink Glasses could step into them. They were the same brown leather as the top piece, and laced up on the sides.
“Oh, Jenny,” Cheryl said as she stood.
Pink Glasses, aka Jenny, turned and looked in the mirror. She cursed. “I look like I’m cosplaying as a WoW character.”
Cheryl laughed wildly and Christiana’s lips twitched. The overall effect was scantily clad Amazon warrior, like the women on the covers of sci-fi novels. It was rather disconcerting when paired with Jenny’s large pink glasses and chic haircut.
“Fuck it all. I’m going to get a drink.” Jenny stomped toward the door.
“Your ass looks amazing,” the guy called out after her.
Jenny threw open the door and walked out. Her friends burst out laughing. Christiana giggled a little, then stopped.
This was it, her opportunity to get out of here. The need for adventure that had propelled Christiana this far was gone, lost under the weight of reality and the anxiety that was churning in her gut. She’d had enough time in Wonderland. Time to go home.
Jenny was out there, so if she left now she wouldn’t be the first one, and Jenny’s outfit would draw attention, allowing Christiana to hopefully sneak upstairs unnoticed.
What about the stuff in the locker? She’d have to abandon that. Luckily, the keys to her work truck were in the pocket of her jacket, and her ID was in her backpack.
Christiana stood, then nodded to the others, before gliding toward the door. She’d read somewhere that the key to a great con was acting like you had every right to be there. This was a big con, so Christiana kept her chin up and her gaze down as she walked out.
She didn’t look around. Didn’t pause. She walked from the subs’ dressing room to the stairs, as if she knew exactly what she was doing and had every right to do it. The candles were all lit, and the first floor was suffused with soft golden light and the smell of melting wax.
One step.
Another.
Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure that the sound would give her away.
Halfway up.
Her neck prickled, as if everyone was looking at her. Was everyone looking at her?
Don’t turn around, don’t look back. Keep going.
Almost to the top.
The darkness of the second floor felt like a refuge after the comparative brightness of the first floor. Three more steps. There were three more steps.
Her heart was thudding in her ears, even as she strained to hear what was happening on the first floor. She was close enough now that if someone ran up after her, she might be able to disappear back through the hole, pull on her boots and jacket, and escape.
She took the last step, pausing for a moment as the adrenaline that was flooding her system made her dizzy. Moving faster now, she turned left, hugging the iron balustrade.
Keep going, run to the black drape, and get out of here.
But she’d made it this far. Her success bolstered her flagging courage. What harm could there be in staying a little while longer?
She found a pool of shadow and sank to her knees, far enough back from the railing that she couldn’t be seen, but close enough that she could see the stairs, a section of the first floor, and the mouth of the hallway.
Taking slow, deliberate breaths, she calmed herself. She’d done it. It didn’t mean she was safe—nothing about this was either safe or smart.
But kneeling here, tucked up close to the back of a couch, in a pool of darkness, she had the perfect vantage point to watch people enter the building and keep track of who was coming up the stairs. She looked to the side, estimating how long it would take her to sprint to the velvet wall. That was her escape route.
Her determination faltered once more. She should go now. But…
But she didn’t want to. The impulse that had driven her to assume this camouflage was stronger than her voice of reason.
She’d leave soon. The longer she stayed, the more likely she was to do or say something that would give her away. But for now she could watch, and pretend to be a part of this dark, decadent world.
A smile curved her lips, and she shifted, sitting on her bottom with her legs tucked to one side. She didn’t have long to wait before the faint screech of metal signaled the opening of the outer door, and a group of sleek, elegant people walked in.
Christiana leaned forward, gaze riveted on the activity on the first floor.
Chapter 3
James Nolen peered out the window as the car turned off the paved road and onto a gravel one. The lights from the Bay Bridge sparkled on the choppy waters of San Francisco Bay. The driver had offered him champagne and sparkling water once he was seated. He’d been drinking for the last hour of the flight from Europe, so he opted for water, drinking from a heavy Waterford Crystal tumbler. As the car started down a rather steep incline, creeping between trees bowed by the persistent winds off the bay, he finished the water in one long swallow lest it spill.
An hour ago, the black town car had picked him up at SFO. The driver wore a boutonniere of a single white orchid, and a delicate potted orchid was settled in a small holder that had been attached to the partition between front and back seats. James had been staring at the orchid on and off since leaving the airport. Halfway here, a sense of deja vu hit him, and he’d considered knocking on the partition and asking the driver to return him to the airport. This event would be the same as the one before it, and the one before that. He was bored and he hadn’t even arrived.
But he’d gone to the trouble of flying all the way here, and even in first class, Emirates Air was confining. He had no great desire to get back on a plane. The least he could do was spend a few days in San Francisco. The event was three nights, as was traditional. He’d go tonight, watch, maybe chat business, and drink in moderation. If he was lucky, there would be some interesting Silicon Valley newcomers, though tech people showed a distressing lack of interest in kink, unlike financiers and real estate moguls.
His ennui began to fade as they pulled off the bridge onto a small island in the middle of the San Francisco bay. A few more turns and the car crept down the side of the steep hill towards the water. The locations were usually secret, depending on the host or hostess, but he’d expected a private residence. The few buildings they’d seen looked industrial and a bit rundown. Where were they going?
James looked at the partition between himself and the driver. Was he being kidnapped? Huh. That would certainly be something different.
They cleared the bend in the road, reaching sea level. A large open area near the water was carpeted in old gravel, weeds forcing the
mselves up between the rocks. A dilapidated warehouse hunkered down in the center of a large clearing at the shore. If not for two nearly identical black town cars pulling away from the warehouse to take the twisting road back up to the peak of the island, he might have had to seriously consider the kidnapping notion.
The car came to a stop. The driver didn’t get out, or lower the partition. James fastened the center button of his suit jacket as he slid from the backseat.
He straightened and took in the dilapidated warehouse. Cold air whipped against his skin. He blinked against the salt spray, tucking his chin down as he took quick steps to the door. There was a single large lantern dangling from a hook by a rusty door, a lone lamp left burning to mark a long forgotten outpost here along the edge where land met sea. Once he’d closed some of the distance, he was able to see the single orchid bloom resting inside the glass lantern. What waited inside would not be decrepit or forgotten—decadent, salacious activities and like-minded people waited inside that rusted shell, like gold hidden inside crumbling dirt and stone.
A little thrill of anticipation rushed through him. This was rather delightfully illicit. Instead of a location at some grand villa or estate, this month’s party had the feel of a speakeasy. Novelty was more precious than gold in James’s world.
He turned the handle, tugging on the heavy door, which screeched as rusted metal scraped against the warped doorframe.
How atmospheric.
James stepped over the threshold, holding back a smile. It would be foolish to get his hopes up. Tonight would most likely not be so different from nights that came before. He would probably find himself restless and irritated. Certainly the novel setting had piqued his interest, but over the past year of—gods help him—celibacy, he’d learned to manage his expectations.
A hall was lit by a hundred candles of all sizes, anchored on heavy iron sconces and candelabras. The floor was age-marked concrete, save for the plush cream-colored carpet that arrowed down the center of the corridor. People milled about in the room at the end of the hallway. The crowds parted, revealing a dramatic staircase.
James’s steps slowed as he reached the end of the corridor. He took a moment to look around. There was a long bar to the left, a few lovely displays to the right. An acquaintance nodded. What was the man’s name? Something very American East Coast—Chad or Chester. Wanting to buy himself time to remember the man’s name, James took a second look around, this time spotting the door with the Masters’ symbol on it. He slipped into the dressing room. A few men were lounging in low leather chairs, while yet another perused the wall of toys, many of which were still in their expensive packaging. An attendant waited there to help oil a flogger or wash an anal plug as needed.
James slipped out of his jacket, draping it on a hanger and placing it in an empty locker.
“James.” Jun-Seo turned from perusing the toy and equipment options.
James smiled in genuine pleasure at seeing his friend. They met at the midpoint of the room, clasping hands. “How are you, my friend?” James asked.
“I’m on vacation.” Jun grinned.
“Vacation? You’re a rebel.”
“My family despairs of me.”
Jun-Seo’s family was one of the most powerful in South Korea. He and James had met at a boat party years ago, and bonded over the fact that they were both getting their MBAs at the time. Theirs was a friendship that waxed and waned with no set pattern. There were times when they’d see each other nearly every day, either because they had business dealings or because they were at the same lavish week-long party. James had introduced Jun to Orchid Club—the organizers of this monthly kink-stravaganza. Kink-stravaganza was Jun’s term for the parties.
“I didn’t see you last month in Rio,” James said.
Jun shook his head. “I’ve been at home for three months straight.” His dark hair was perfectly cut, parted on one side in a conservative style, but with enough length on the top to keep him from looking stodgy. Normally Jun used product to keep every last hair in place, but now when he shook his head, one lock fell onto his forehead.
James took a seat. “And how is everyone?”
Jun sat also. “I’m still a rebel in my father’s eyes.”
“I thought I saw mention that you posted larger than anticipated gains last quarter.”
“We did. But my hair is too long. I’m not married. I’m a playboy.” Jun tried to smile ruefully, but his jaw was clenched.
James winced. He understood Jun all too well. “I’m guessing you’ll be topping?”
Unlike James, Jun played both sides of the coin, sometimes submitting, sometimes topping. Though Jun’s “submission” scenes were so ruthlessly and precisely negotiated that it was essentially topping from the bottom. Most of the Mistresses knew that, but were still willing to play.
“Yes. What about you? Anything interesting happen last month I need to know about?”
James grunted. “I need a drink.”
Jun raised one eyebrow. “Is that a good idea?”
Jun was one of the few people who knew James had been addicted to party drugs when he was younger. As a result, James tried to be careful not to use anything addictive, such as alcohol, as a crutch for his boredom. Moderation was key. Boring, boring moderation.
“A poor choice of words,” James admitted. “I would rather have a glass in my hand as a prop while I tell you how little you missed last month.”
Jun rose. “Then by all means, let us acquire drinks.”
James laughed. There were times Jun sounded like an American teenager—probably because he’d attended school in the US from the age of fourteen right on though his MBA.
James had gone to school in England, Switzerland, the UAE, and finally the US for his undergraduate degree, before going to the London School of Economics for his MBA. His international upbringing could be attributed to his parents—his father was British, his mother from the UAE.
James tugged his tie off, throwing it into the locker before joining Jun at the door.
They exited the dressing room, James in his dark slacks and pearl gray dress shirt, open at the throat. Jun wore a pair of well-worn jeans, which had probably cost a small fortune since there was no way he would have had time to actually wear jeans to the point they looked like that. He’d paired that with a snug-fitting black T-shirt. It was a far cry from the conservative suits Jun normally wore.
“What’s his name again?” James used the smallest nod to indicate the man who’d first greeted him.
“Chaz,” Jun said dismissively. “Idiot.”
James snorted as they reached the bar. “I was close. I was thinking it was Chad or Chester.”
“It is Chester; he goes by Chaz.”
The bartender slid over to them. The lovely woman wore a dark brown bodysuit that looked like a one-piece bathing suit, her long hair was pulled into a ponytail on the top of her head. It slid forward as she bowed. “What may I serve you?”
“Old Raj and tonic,” James said. “Heavy on the tonic.”
Jun examined the bottles on display before ordering. “Glenlivet 25.”
When their drinks arrived, Jun raised his glass in a small toast. “All right, Cambridge, spill. What did I miss in Rio?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Seriously?”
“The servers wore Carnival-style feathered headgear. Besides that, it was just another party. If not for the feathers on people’s heads, I would be hard pressed to tell you how it differed from the party the month before that.”
“Really, James, you’re so jaded that even some of the world’s most expensive, kinky parties are too tame for you?”
“When you say it like that, I sound like a prick.” James took a sip—the bartender had listened, and the drink had only half a measure of gin in it.
“Your words, not mine.”
James grimaced. “I know you’re right. It’s the height of privilege to claim boredom when surrounded by all this.�
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They moved away from the bar so they could see the area on the other side of the stairs, where the equipment was set up. A naked man was bent at the waist, one hand braced on a wooden horse, the other cupping his cock and balls, protecting them as his Master paddled his ass. A blond woman was strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross, her eyes closed and head back in an expression of exquisite pleasure as hot wax was dripped onto her naked breasts.
James’s cock twitched—he wasn’t a eunuch—but he felt no burning need to hunt down a submissive and find an empty St. Andrew’s Cross. When he’d first started exploring BDSM, he’d been insatiable in his need to try everything, to feel and taste this decadence so few people ever had the opportunity to sample.
An older man, in his early sixties most likely, was coaxing his submissive onto a spanking bench. The woman was older than most of the women here, in her fifties. She wore a long gown of dark brown velvet that hung from gold beaded straps. There was a high slit on one side and the bodice was cut in a low “V” and loose enough that James had no doubt that it could be easily pushed aside to expose her breasts.
She took a step up onto the raised platform that supported the spanking bench, clinging to her Master’s hand. Her gaze swept out over the crowd. She shook her head, starting to step back off the platform.
James took a few steps, not wanting to miss any of the couple’s interaction.
The man cupped her elbows, holding her in place. His head bent, lips moving as he spoke to her. She shook her head, reaching up to touch his cheek as she responded. His hands pulled her close, hugging her and resting his cheek alongside hers.
His lips and hands never stopped moving. James imagined what the man was saying.
You’re beautiful, you’re perfect, you’re mine. They don’t matter. Only what’s between us matters.
A minute passed, then another, before the man leaned away. He tipped his submissive’s head up, holding her gaze. James could see the tension drain out of her. He dropped his hand, and she lowered her chin. It was clear they’d been together a long time