AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A chorus of ass-kissers agree with the first girl.
“Okay, stop it,” Kendra says, giggling, clearly happy to hear all the compliments she’s fished for. “Anyway, what I’m saying is, it’s easy to get carried away out there. Our members are powerful men, and I don’t know about you, but power is sexy to me.
“If you find yourself in a sexy situation, feel free to let go. Do whatever you like. I’ll just say it: you can take a sex break any time you want, with any patron you like, as long as they want you, too.
“So if there’s someone who catches your eye . . . We’re not going to stop you from giving him a good time and making him want to come back.” Kendra smiles.
“Are we allowed to socialize with the men, like, outside the club?” asks a girl wearing Playboy bunny ears on her head.
“Of course,” Kendra says. “You’re not slaves. The slave thing is just role play. You’re free. You can socialize with anyone you want. You can meet them outside. We don’t care, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your work.”
Every word Kendra says helps calm my nerves. I was worried about what to expect. Since this is an exclusive, secret club, it’s not like I can just Google it. But The Succubus seems to take safety seriously.
Even though it looks like the land of the lawless outside, there’s actually a bunch of rules that governs every interaction here. If anybody breaks a rule, the beefy security guys are always around to fix the situation.
All of these safeguards make me feel better about my prospects here. I don’t have to worry about some old, greasy creep touching me without permission.
In a lot of ways, the workplace conditions here are better than bars and lounges that hire lingerie waitresses. Those places are happy to turn a blind eye to harassment by creepy customers who offer the girls money to go back with them to their dingy hotel rooms.
On the other hand, The Succubus recognizes that harassment happens and puts safety measures in place. Men who repeatedly break the rules may be banned for life by the club.
Still, as I step back into the big, cavernous hall, my heart thumps in my chest.
I stand and watch, mesmerized as the three girls on the stage are locked up in sturdy metal cages with their faces and asses jutting out.
A brawny man, wearing a mask, a plain black shirt, and a pair of dark jeans, circles the cages. He seems to be in charge. He’s the Dom—or dominant male—as Kendra told us during the short briefing.
The Dom on stage runs his hands over the bits of the girls’ skin that stick out of the bars, making them audibly gasp and moan.
There’s something about the way they interact that makes my insides tingle. The absolute power that the man wields and the utter vulnerability of the women in the cages, locked up, restrained, and helpless.
The juxtaposition puts the masculine and the feminine in stark contrast to each other in the most sensual way.
My breathing grows heavy, and I’m not hypocritical enough to say that it’s because I’m scared.
This is bad.
Because while The Succubus is going to protect me from pushy creeps and possible stalkers, they won’t protect me from myself. The lack of clear boundaries scares me, but in a way, it also thrills me.
The possibility of meeting a dominant, powerful stranger stirs my stomach with both fear and anticipation.
I’ve never had any experience with BDSM beyond reading about it in romance novels. Maybe this is the right time to explore it in a safe environment.
Ultra-wealthy people pay a fortune for the privilege to access The Succubus. While I’m here, shouldn’t I enjoy myself?
At the same time, I’ve always regarded my side gigs as just that—side gigs. You know, so I can save up and create some security for my future. There’s a good chance I’ll never have a family and only have myself to rely on, so building a nest egg is one of the few things I take seriously in life.
But if I have sex with a stranger—who may be wearing a mask—while I’m on the job, what does that make me?
I mean, I don’t have a rigid view on morality, but I’d still essentially be doing it (1) with a stranger, and (2) as an optional part of my job.
So, not to get too pedantic and all, but wouldn’t that make me . . . a sex worker?
My skin crawls at the thought. I know some people do it and they’re happy with their choices—good for them. But I don’t know if I can make peace with the thought that I’ve been a sex worker at some point in my life.
Kendra was right. The atmosphere in this place is highly sexual. The air sizzles with tension and unspoken desire.
