Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 137135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
The first floor entrance, guarded by two scary-looking guards—who are actually a super-sweet gay couple who own a mobile dog grooming boutique—only shows a dark staircase leading to even more darkness. Not until you reach the very top of those steps can you pick up the sexy lighting, the thump of the music, the sight of men, women, and everything in between. And we’re not just talking about everything in between as in gender identifiers. We’re talking people are walking around in everything from extravagant ballgowns to nothing but a bunny tail attached to their ass by a butt plug. There’s a woman I see almost every time I visit—she’s always in a tuxedo and walks with a man on all fours, and he wears nothing but kneepads and a collar attached to a chain, the other end held in the woman’s hand.
And that naked man could very well be one of the top dogs in the Special Forces.
Pun totally intended.
Either way… while no one can see what’s really going on up those stairs, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know something is. One would only have to be on the same street and see a person or the couples or throuples trickling in and not coming out for hours. No business hours during the day, so it’s locked down until the sun sets unless an appointment has been made for a special occasion or situation.
So of course rumors would spread.
Anyone curious and intelligent enough could gather all the rumors and figure out it’s at least some kind of members-only club. A little deeper with a fine tooth comb and they might pick up on things like “weird-looking chokers” or “masks, but not the medical kind.” But most vanilla people would just chalk it up to being some kind of goth or alternative dance club. They wouldn’t have the mind to think it’s one of the most world-renowned BDSM sanctuaries in existence—
“What’s that smile for, little one?” he asks, and it startles me from my wondering thoughts enough that my eyes finally lift to meet his for the first time, only to discover he’s wearing the sunglasses from his profile picture, and I lower my gaze once again.
How odd.
It’s pitch-dark outside, and there’s very little light inside the truck.
I have the sudden urge to sing “I wear my sunglasses at night…” but don’t want to offend him if it’s something he does for his own comfort, a way to feel secure, the way some Club Alias members wear masks even if their identity is known on the outside. It helps them, for lack of a better term, get into character. To help them slip into their D/s persona and stay in that mindset. Or just like a submissive and her collar.
I can’t think of a stealthy way to ask him if he’s a fellow member of the club, so instead, I go with the other thought dancing around in my head. “I… I understand what you’re talking about. Associations, I mean,” I stutter out, my voice not sounding like my own. “Scent is a big one for me. To this day, if I smell lawn clippings and gasoline, I instantly think of my dad. He was a klutz and never managed to refill the lawn mower without spilling any gas. It was always super fun and a great day when he’d let me sit on his lap and steer the riding mower while he controlled the pedals.”
I clear my throat, my face heating from rambling about my late father when I’m currently in the back of an SUV waiting to hear rules and information from a Dominant to see if I feel we’d fit what each other needs. All while dying for him to skip that very important step—that should never, ever, ever be skipped—and just ravage my fucking brains out instead.
“Well, if I knew it would bring such a sweet smile to your face, I wouldn’t have showered after all the yardwork I did before I came,” he says, and the gentleness in his tone lures my eyes from my lap once more. One corner of his full lips is pulled up, easily seen in the dim lighting because they’re framed by the bright-white “salt” of his salt-and-pepper beard. That verbal response in conjunction with his little half smile does wonders to settle my nerves to a more manageable level.
He must see me relax, or sense it, because he continues on as if we hadn’t taken a detour in our conversation. If he can tolerate that happening about a trillion times per conversation without getting frustrated with me, there might be a chance we can at least be friends if we don’t make a D/s match. One of the things my ex-best friend threw in my face not long before she and the other ladies in our friend group ditched me—all except my ride-or-die, Vi—was how annoying I am to try to talk with, because I would always interrupt her or seemed like I was trying to one-up her.