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There’s no way I could ever call him. That’s insane. I’m sure he was just giving this to me in case I needed help or wanted to keep in contact…because of Beau. It was totally adadmove. So I don’t know why my brain seems to be stuck on this idea that he wants me to call him for any other reason.
I toss the number into my trash bin next to my bed and turn off the light. But instead of drifting off to sleep, I find myself tossing and turning for almost an hour. I keep reliving that moment over and over, where he called me lovely and stroked my face.
Let it go, Charlie.
But I can’t. And a minute later, I’m picking up my phone again. This time instead of googling SPC, I put Emerson Grant into the search bar. I don’t know why I was so afraid of looking him up earlier, but I think I was too nervous. If I knew too much about him, he’d get under my skin, so the less I knew, the better.
But right now, my curiosity won’t let me rest. So I’m going to scratch this itch once and then move on.
Those three letters,SPC, pop up first, just under his photo and the title, CEO.
I click on the link, and it goes to a black screen with a box in the middle, declaring this siteMembers Only. Well, shit. There’s a place to input a password, but I clearly don’t have one, so I backtrack.
Scrolling down a little farther, I keep digging. There’s information on him and his work history, a lot of vague details about his education, and a few dashing photos of him in his twenties and thirties, mostly in tuxes and at important-looking events. But it’s not until page seven of this never-ending Google search that I find what I’m looking for. Apparently, someone else was curious too, and posted everything I’m dying to know.
Salacious Players’ Club. A dating, escort service, soon-to-be expanding operations to a full-service members-only club in California’s Briar Point district.
He owns a…dating service? And what the hell does a members-only club mean?
Clicking through post after post, I nearly drop my phone when I land on what looks like a soft-core porn site. It’s a blog titled:Madame Kink’s West Coast Escapades. The woman on the screen is wrapped in tight leather, holding a whip and a bone-chilling smile. Words like kink, slave, submission, bondage, and exhibitionism stare back at me on the screen.
“What kind of dating service is this?”
Suddenly, I’m twenty pages deep in a kinky rabbit hole, and I can’t stop clicking. Apparently, Madame Kink has some experience with Emerson’s…club, er, services, or whatever. And she has journaled her way through each interaction.
The SPC is a groundbreaking service in sexual liberation for both men and women. Finally, a place where we can explore our desires in asafeand healthy (and oh-so fulfilling) manner. Mr. Grant and his team are real pioneers, and I hope to see this club’s services spread across the country.
I have to gulp down the ball of nerves lodged in my throat. Am I dreaming right now? Something about all of this tells me this dating service doesn’t pair you up with people who also like to do yoga and take long walks on the beach. According to Madame Kink, people who like to be bound and gagged can easily find other people who like to…bind and gag. Is this really what Beau’s dad does? My brain cannot seem to wrap around any of this, but I’m too far in now to discontinue my search.
Can’t…stop…clicking.
This blog is like a dummy’s guide to kink, and I scroll through a multitude of things I don’t understand. There’s extensively more to it than I ever thought, and there are a lot of things I’m a little too afraid to read about, but my eyes do catch on one thing in particular.
Praise kink.
Against my better judgment, I click on it. A page pops up with a woman on her knees and a man’s hand holding her by the chin. She’s staring up at him as if he’s God himself, and my stomach churns. That’s what I did today, wasn’t it? I let him put me in that position, and Ilikedit.
“Nope.” Quickly, I swipe the screen away and toss my phone on the nightstand. “Nope, nope, nope.” I amnotthat kind of girl, and I have absolutely no interest in finding guys who want to make me get on my knees while they call me pretty. Fuck that.
It’s almost two when I finally drift off to sleep, after putting all thoughts of Emerson Grant and Madame Kink and the Salacious Players’ Club out of my mind.
But apparently, my mind has other plans because my dreams are filled to the brim, reliving every moment in his office, the man in the suit replaced by Madame Kink herself, who then morphs into Beau. Instead of fighting against the act of kneeling, I actually beg for his attention. I’m clawing at his legs, chasing after him like a dog, but he only makes me feel worse, telling me how pathetic I am instead of how lovely.
It’s excruciating, but finally, everything changes when it’s Beau’s dad looking down at me. Even in my dream, I have some sense of awareness that this isn’t real and that it’s okay to like it because I will wake up eventually and no one will know.
Except in my dream, I want more. I reach out and touch the soft cotton of his slacks, feeling the muscle of his legs underneath. I fumble with his belt, staring at him from the floor. He strokes my head and overwhelms me with a feeling of euphoria. And I keep struggling with his belt, desperate to get his dick out. And just as I get the zipper down, I wake up.
My alarm blares on my phone, and I let out a groan. My body is a livewire, anxious and horny—not exactly the way I wanted to start my day. I seriously need help. Trying to have sex with my ex-boyfriend’s dad in my dreams…just lovely.
RULE #5: WHEN THE HOT MILLIONAIRE DADDY WALKS INTO THE SKATING RINK TO OFFER YOU A BETTER PAYING JOB, YOU TAKE IT.
Charlie
The anxious and horny mood I woke up in this morning stays with me all day, and not even some detachable showerhead time could suppress the way that dream made me feel. At work, the whole thing plays over and over in my mind, making me spacey and a little irritable.
I’m stocking a box of new skates when a deep and oddly familiar voice from the other side of the counter makes me pause, and I’m actually wondering if my sleep-deprived brain just conjured the sound.
“Eleven and a half, please.”
