Page 6 of Black Light: Cured

don’t joke when it comes to good alcohol, especially when it runs at a minimum of twenty-five

hundred a bottle. It’s not that I think she’s watering down my whiskey or giving me the wrong brand,

but I do love watching her squirm. Eyes narrowed, I stare her down, just until she’s breathless and a

blush stains her cheeks.

“I don’t know. Last time, it didn’t taste as robust. I would never accuse you of holding out on me,

but….”

Shaking her head, she holds the bottle over the whiskey tumbler and pours. When it comes to the

water, I keep a close eye on her. Most of the time, the bartenders here know what they’re doing, but

I’m of the opinion one can never be too careful with alcohol this expensive.

With how much the bottle costs, I won’t risk it. “Just a splash,” I reemphasize, grinning as she

does her best to hide the exasperation crawling across her face. “Don't ruin this one with too much

water like you did last time."

“Now, Master Aiden. You know I’ve never ruined a drink of yours. You just have to trust that I

know what I’m doing. I wouldn’t be employed here if I didn’t.”

Instead of responding, I simply stare at her, watching as that uncertain blush creeps up her face. It

doesn’t matter if she’s done every drink to perfection thus far; there is always room for error, and it’s

my job to mitigate it as much as possible.

“Here you go, Master Aiden.”

“Thanks, Heather.” Reaching out, I grab the glass and swirl it around a few times, watching the

amber liquid as it slides around.

With a quick nod of her head, she walks over to the others and takes their drink orders. Just as I

thought. The only one with a palate for scotch orders a 12-year Glenlivet. I don’t begrudge them, but

once you’ve had a scotch as old as the Macallan 30, there’s no going back. There’s something to be

said about letting a drink age, but many seem to like what’s new and in style, caring nothing for

something that actually takes time to get better.

Their soft, incessant chatter flutters about me as I sit there nursing my drink. I didn’t come here for

the hot gossip. I came here to watch people being violated in the most delicious of ways. Turning, I

stare out at the play space, my eyes glancing over the various Dominants and submissives.

Not much really catches my eyes until I see ropes dangling from hard points. Of course, Dillon is

there, wrapping some hapless victim in his sensual web, but this time, the scene makes me pause.