Her deep red hair is still up, albeit in a sleek twist now, and her lips are stained a rich crimson. I’d love to see that color smeared around my c**k as I thrust it into her mouth while she’s bound and helpless on her knees in front of me. But I doubt that will happen tonight. In all likelihood, her hands will remain free for the remainder of the weekend. That is, unless she lets Laura Drake out of the bag. Then all bets are off.
The thought of that, of being with a woman like that again, makes me hard as a rock behind my zipper. It also makes me uneasy. I learned my lesson with Alyssa. Or at least I thought I had.
I shift in my seat. From the corner of my eye, I see Samantha glance at me. I turn to capture her gaze.
“Are you nervous?”
“Should I be?” she replies.
“A week ago, I would’ve said yes. But now…”
She doesn’t respond, just looks away. I see her fiddle nervously with the domino in her lap. I’m sure she’s curious about it. Or maybe she’s not. My estimation of her responses is skewed; she’s a bit more of a mystery than I’d originally thought. But there’s nothing I like more than unraveling a mystery. Except, of course, unraveling a tightly-wound woman.
When we arrive at the deceptively blasé building, I’m a little more sexually…jacked up than usual. For the last couple of years, I’ve come here only to watch, to feed my addiction just enough to keep it under control. I haven’t participated in a long time. But tonight…tonight is different.
I’ve got the sweetly naive Samantha sitting beside me, dressed in something I could really take advantage of, something that gives me easy access should she decide she’d like to take a room of our own. But also in the seat next to me I’ve got Laura Drake. She writes about sexual exploits that fascinate me. And inflame me.
The question is: Who will accompany me inside tonight? Who will show up to dominate the beautiful redhead on my arm? Both excite me, just in totally different ways, and the anticipation is like rocket fuel to an already raging fire. It’s been too long.
After I park and cut the engine, I get out and walk around to let Samantha out of the car. I reach for the domino between her fingers. I put it into place. She adjusts it slightly and then looks up to meet my eyes. There’s anxiety in them, as well as in the smile she gives me. It tells me that Samantha Jansen is with me right now. Laura Drake is nowhere to be found. It makes me wonder if she’ll ever make an appearance or if she is more of a fictional person than I realize.
After I slide my own domino into place, I take Samantha’s hand and place it on the inside of my arm as we walk to the front of the building.
Like many others, this house, loaded with all the Southern architectural charm that Charleston is known for, was long ago converted into a business. Beyond the wide steps and charming veranda lie a restaurant and bar areas that occupy the entire lower level. It’s neither known to nor frequented by the general public. Only established and thoroughly vetted members are permitted through the subtly secured front doors. While it appears we are able to walk right in, I happen to know there are cameras on us, as well as the eyes of several seemingly casual observers who are actually high-end bouncers. They are in place to ensure that the “club” remains exclusive and discreet.
And largely undiscovered.
I lead Samantha to the bar and order both of us a martini, extra dirty. She doesn’t argue when I push the stem of the glass into her fingers. She merely eyes me over the rim as she takes a sip. I see her top lip curl slightly at the harsh bite of alcohol and I suppress a smile. She really is mostly Samantha.
We stand in front of the elegant bar, beneath the elegant chandelier, inside the elegant club until Samantha has looked around and I feel the tension leave her stiff spine. When the muscles relax beneath my palm, I speak.
“Let me show you around.”
She smiles another small smile, takes another sip of her drink, sets it down and then nods in agreement. I lead her toward the long, winding staircase with its rich mahogany railing and thick oriental runner, and we slowly ascend it. My pulse is already quickening with thoughts of what’s to come.
At the top of the stairs, there is a hallway to the left and right, as well as another set of steps that leads to the third floor. But for us, for tonight, I think this floor will suffice.
When I motion Samantha to the right, she turns slowly in that direction. I wonder if she’s noticing the subtle changes as we walk toward the hall—the dimmer lighting, the darker colors, the thick panels covering the walls, panels designed specifically to absorb sound.
At the mouth of the hall, there are three doors—one left, one right and one straight ahead. I happen to know the ones on the left and right are bathrooms. It’s the one directly in front of us that I’m most interested in.
I twist the knob and push open the door. I urge Samantha through into another hallway. When I close the insulated door behind us, the low tones of conversation, the delicate tinkle of glass and the soft music from the floor below are all immediately deadened.
I take Samantha’s hand and lead her slowly forward. Doors line the corridor ahead, the first of which is closed. Even though the soft moans assure me it’s occupied, the closed door signals their desire for privacy. No one in the club would dare violate that. The rules are strict and absolute.
“Tell me, Samantha,” I begin, leading her on, “have you ever been to a place where you can have anything you want? Where anything you desire is not only acceptable, but obtainable?”
She doesn’t answer me, but I feel her fingers tighten around mine. The next door we approach is open. I let Samantha move slightly ahead of me, sliding my hand over her hip to bring her to a stop and then moving in to stand behind her. Looking over her shoulder, I see the man and woman inside. I think to myself this is a good first look for her.
The room is windowless and dominated by an enormous mattress draped in black. There is a woman lying atop it, spread eagle. Around her wrists and ankles are black leather cuffs attached to chains which are anchored to the floor. There are candles dripping with thick rivulets of hot wax placed all around the bed. They’ve been used, as I can see by the streaks of dried, blood-red wax on her stomach, thighs and br**sts. Kneeling on the bed, with his head between her legs, is a man.
“Some people like to be watched,” I whisper into Samantha’s ear before I press my lips to her neck. As if triggered by my words, the woman on the bed turns her head to look at us. I recognize her. Her mouth is open in a silent moan and her eyes are wide behind her domino. I hear Samantha’s soft gasp when Carla’s lips curve into a satisfied smile. Her moan becomes louder and she twists against her restraints. The man between her legs moves his arm, pushing something he’s holding in his hand deep inside her, in and out. Her next moan is partly a laugh as she arches her back and throws her head back in ecstasy.