AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter One - Sloane
Not everyone who comes into the Dark Club wears a mask. It’s not a requirement for this BDSM establishment. In fact, most of the patrons are comfortable in their skin and sexual desires, so they wear almost nothing.
Unfortunately, most of my coworkers are that way. I say unfortunately because it’s uncomfortable for me. Once you’ve seen the shy girl in accounting flaunt her all onstage or your boss and his wife engaging in some leather-bound foreplay, it can make it very awkward at the office coffee bar. It’s best that they don’t know what I saw. They don’t know I come here at all.
The number of my coworkers who frequent this club is one reason I wear a mask. No one can know I’m a patron. No one will understand that the prim and proper princess that they all know me as sometimes likes to have herself choked by her expensive pearl necklace or tied up by a complete stranger—someone who will never know my last name or who I’m related to—and get fucked for one night of fun.
The Dark Club is the place where I come to use men. I get my kicks here. Nothing more.
Recently I gave up on romance. Because of my wealthy family, men saw me as a cash cow or manipulated me like my father and my brother. Christian and I have buried the hatchet, but Dad is another story. His net’s financial and getting untangled is proving more than I can handle. Until I’m free of my old man, love seems inconsequential.
Life is better this way: alone, single, with random one-night stands. With a mask between me and the men I fuck, they can’t really get to me. They can’t hurt me, at least not emotionally. And this club provides what I need to satisfy my desires. Plus, I know it’s safe. One of my former bosses owns it. So here I can let loose.
Leaning casually against the cherry-stained, wooden bar, I look out over the crowds of leather-clad people—some wearing only harnesses—and try to figure out who will hit on me first.
The first night I wore my mask, I worried that no one would approach me. I was wrong. Men like a bit of mystery as much as they like a challenge. Most nights, I have more than enough suiters to pick from. It’s enough to scratch my itch, as they say.
The music from the DJ changes. The colored lights flash and move on the dance floor, capturing my attention. Yet, something feels different—like the whole club is holding its breath. There is a slight tingle in the skin on the back of my neck. It’s anticipation, but I don’t know of what.
Feeling heady, I sip the last drops of my old-fashioned, wishing that I had ordered absinthe. That’s the atmosphere of tonight, slightly make-believe, slightly unreal. It makes me feel drunk on excitement, and I don’t even know what I am excited about.
After sliding my glass back to the bartender, I smooth down my leather mini dress and check my hair. It’s all held up by a tight bun. I don’t encourage my men to tug me by the hair; it upsets the mask, and the mask never comes off.
The tension in the club heightens. Sweaty bodies are writhing much too close on the dance floor. It’s magnetic, rough, and animalistic, like an ancient fertility ritual. The desire in the air calls to me, so I step forward, carefully balanced on my black platform heels.
I take one step toward the crowd when something tells me to turn and look. There, by the bouncer, a small group of men is standing and waiting for their IDs to be checked. The three of them form a perfect triangle. Their backs are straight, their shoulders even. Heads high in a ridged fashion. The pinnacle of the triangle is a man with such magnetism that I can’t take my eyes off him.
Dressed in a black, pressed button-up shirt and black slacks, the group leader holds himself higher than the rest of the crowd around him. His height helps, clearly over six feet, but his demeanor is regal and demanding. This is a man that gets what he wants.
He makes my pussy wet. I like that attitude.
When the last ID is checked, they move forward in perfect formation, with the two men trailing the first like a cape. The stomp of their feet is perfectly timed with the dance music, like some choreographed show. As one, they turn to observe the floor, then the bar. The leader, his lips are twisted into a slight sneer. He likes what he sees but judges us anyway.
With the briefest of hand movements, he directs the unit towards the bar. Their steps never change in rhythm. Instead, their bodies move stiffly spaced and in sync.
