On the third floor of Expose Club, a few blocks from Fifth Avenue, was a sex club. The sort of place celebrities, politicians, millionaires, and billionaires frequented when they wanted to get their rocks off, and I planned to reveal to the world exactly what happened there.
Over the past month, I’d spent countless evenings at the club staking it out both inside and out. I knew that the first two floors were regular clubs where people went to get drunk, dance, and pick up people to have regrettable sex with. But I’d also witnessed politicians, movie stars, rappers, and pop singers walk through the first-floor club to the secret elevator by the kitchen that would take them to the third floor.
Last Saturday night, I’d slipped a couple hundred bucks into a bartender’s pocket for the chance to wash glasses and watch the elevator. But I hadn’t been able to discover what was behind the proverbial curtain, or, in Expose’s case, see what was on the other side of the elevator door. I wanted more than to watch people get into an elevator; I wanted proof.
My plan was to do an exposé on Expose Club because the world deserved to know about the double lives the men and women they worshiped and voted for lived. It didn’t hurt that by shining the light on their dirty little secrets, I’d also make a name for myself.
Uncovering the kinks of the rich and famous wasn’t how I’d expected or imagined I’d begin my investigative journalism career, but my editor-in-chief, ironically named Henry Miller, left me no other choice. I had to prove my worth to him, and going undercover at a sex club was how I planned to do just that.
Ever since I’d gotten a job at The New York Reporter, Henry insisted I write the agony aunt column because, in his words, a pretty young thing like me didn’t belong on the streets investigating anyone. His overprotectiveness was because back in the day he had been my dad’s senior editor and since my dad was killed by a hit-and-run driver while working on a story, Henry felt he had to look out for me.
He didn’t. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much.
For crying out loud, I was a journalism graduate from Emerson. During my last two years there, I was the news editor for The Berkeley Beacon where my responsibilities included finding stories and managing reporters. I didn’t bust my ass or live on caffeine and no sleep for four years so I could advise desperate housewives on how to bring the sexy back into their dead marriages.
Plus, after my dad’s death, I’d vowed to follow in his footsteps and become an investigative journalist at The NY Reporter. Being an agony aunt was not how I intended to honor him or spend my days.
I didn’t care if getting my story meant I had to pretend I was a submissive in a sex club. I’d researched the lifestyle enough to know I could act the part. Sure, some of the naughty books I’d read turned me on, and some of the video clips had left me more than a little wet, but it wasn’t like I’d actually have to participate in anything tonight. I was attending the party as an observer only.
The thought of being cuffed, chained, or tethered didn’t do a thing for me, but I’d be lying if I said the thought of being spanked didn’t send tingles to my clit. I’d never had sex at all before but maybe one day, if I ever found a man I wanted to sleep with, I’d ask him to spank me. I had zero interest in any other type of punishment or control, though. No thank you!
The lack of romance in my life wasn’t because I wasn’t pretty or because men found me unattractive. I was what most people described as the girl next door. With my long blonde hair, green eyes and curvy body I got my fair share of appreciative glances and invitations to dinner, but so far, none of those dinner dates turned into anything more. I guess most men didn’t like my ambition or my competitive nature. Their loss.
Getting an invitation to the party wasn’t easy or cheap. I went to Mike Russo, one of my dad’s old contacts and asked him to help. Mike was the kind of guy who could get anything for anyone… at a hefty price tag.
I’d used the inheritance money left to me by my grandmother to pay for the invitation. I could see her spinning in her grave because her only granddaughter was going to a sex club, and not only that but she’d also paid five-thousand dollars for the pleasure. I made a sign of the cross and for the millionth time prayed for her forgiveness.
Going undercover with no one knowing was risky, but it was a risk I wanted to take. Not even my best friend Jessica, who was now on her way to Jamaica for the holidays with her family and who usually knew everything about me including what color underwear I wore, had any knowledge about my plans. If she did, she would have ripped me a new one. She thought I was going to the newsroom’s holiday party.
Since I’m a jeans, beat-up Converse, and oversized sweater girl, Jessica jumped at the chance to help me get ready for tonight. As if she needed any excuse to play with hair and makeup. Much to her parents’ chagrin, she dropped out of Fordham’s business program last year to become a makeup artist—something she kicked ass at.
I was in the chair for two hours while Jessica contoured and highlighted my face. For the first time in my life, I had cheekbones. She also tortured my follicles by straightening and then loosely curling my hair before spraying it into submission. Maybe all the primping and preening was worth it, because I actually felt a little bit sexy.
I wiggled my butt against the squeaky pleather cab seat and inched down the hem of the black dress Jessica found for me at a consignment store. That girl had consignment shopping down to a fine art. She knew the best places in town to get next to new designer dresses at ridiculous prices. The bandage style, off the shoulder LBD she found sucked in my jiggly stomach and lifted up my more-than-a handful boobs and butt. While I didn’t look skinny, I looked toned and healthy.
And then there were my shoes. By no means was I a shoe person but the glitter-covered pointy-toe pumps on my feet were to die for. The color faded from deep black on the front to rose gold on the back, and the leather lining felt like butter.
Since the club had a strict no electronics policy, I had to be clever when it came to concealing my phone because I intended to record as much of the evening as I could. I was no seamstress, but thanks to a YouTube video, I’d sewn a phone-sized panel into the lining of my dress at the back. I’d also included a small hole for the camera lens. There was no way anyone would find my phone unless I got naked, and even then, the lining should keep it hidden.
I also wore a silver masquerade mask which I found on Amazon for ten bucks. Pink and silver feathers decorated the lace bridge and sparkling Swarovski crystals lined the eyes. The mask covered the upper half of my face, and there was no way anyone would recognize me.
The cab pulled to a stop opposite the club, and after I paid the driver, I took a deep now or never breath before stepping outside.
Icy wind slapped my bare legs as if warning me not to go ahead with my plan, but I wasn’t backing out. Not now.
I pulled my black wool coat, also borrowed from Jessica, around my body to shield out the bone-chilling cold.
Excitement mixed with fear tingled my nerve endings, and I stifled the giggle bubbling up in my throat. With the invitation clasped between my fingers, I prayed to God that going undercover would be worth it.
I weaved through a line of beeping cars driven by impatient drivers and stepped onto the blue carpet leading to the club. Fake it till you make it looped around my mind, and I held my head high as I teetered on my skyscraper-high heels towards the door.
On the front of the building, all ten stories, multicolor lights danced in time to Carol of the Bells. There was nothing quite like Christmas in New York City.
Once I reached the main door, guards resembling pit bulls flanked the entry. Each one looked like they could eat me for breakfast, and I hoped they wouldn’t get the chance. Shivers prickled up and down my back, and I forced myself to calm the fuck down. Now wasn’t the time to run away like a scared little girl.
Doing my best to keep faking it till I made it, I smiled so hard my cheeks ached. One doorman who looked li
ke the love child of Conor McGregor and Ronda Rousey held out his hand, silently asking for my invitation. I handed it to him, and he took it without comment. He scanned it under a UV light, and a name appeared, but I didn’t get the chance to read it.
Shit on a fucking stick. The name of the original invitee must only be visible under UV light. If Conor junior asked for my ID, I was screwed.
“Jimmy,” he called out in a surprisingly soft voice. “This one’s for you.”
I froze. Common sense suggested I make a run for it. The reality of the trouble I was in if any of these people discovered I was an undercover reporter wasn’t lost on me. I should go home now and forget about my hairbrained scheme.
Jimmy, a Rottweiler in a tux with tattoos covering his neck and hands, took the invitation from Conor Jr. He turned it over in his hands, looked at the invitation, then looked at me.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
My lungs were fast forgetting how to work.
“Should there be?” Jimmy replied.
“Nope. No problem.”
“Good.” He removed a pager from the breast pocket of his tux and typed out a message. After a few seconds, a message pinged back, and Jimmy gave me a “cat who got all the cream” grin.
“Follow me.”
“Why?” I asked, taking a teeny step back.
“You already know why, sweetheart.”
Chapter 2 – Wyatt Palmer
All I Want for Christmas blasted from the DJ booth at the party, and drew throngs of thrill-seeking partygoers to the dance floor. I wasn’t much for dancing, so I stopped by the bar in the center of the room and ordered two fingers of Macallan Scotch. While waiting for my drink, I observed the celebrations taking place all around me.
Some guests had taken the masquerade theme to extreme lengths and wore costumes that wouldn’t seem out of place in a Venetian ballroom, but not me. I’d kept my attire simple and stylish with a tailored tuxedo and a plain black masque.
The yearly Christmas party at Expose was a safe and sane place for members to indulge in their deepest consensual desires without having to worry about judgment or repercussions. And indulge they did.
If CEOs and politicians wanted movie stars to trail them around the club as if they were pets, they could. Or if box office heartthrobs wanted to wear cuffs, a collar, and a fucking gimp mask while licking their mistress’s feet, they were more than welcome. No cameras, no phones, and a fifty-page NDA meant no evidence.
The no electronics policy was a rule everyone followed, understood, and respected. The policy hadn’t always been so strict, but when pictures and video clips of members began appearing online, the club owners stepped in and amended the membership guidelines. These days, we communicated either verbally or through in-house alphanumeric pagers.
The bartender sat a glass of the twenty-one-year-old scotch in front of me. I picked it up and took a sip, thankful for the slight burn as the liquor slid down my throat. Interviews about my latest memoir had filled the day, and I needed a few glasses of the five-hundred-dollar malt to take the edge off.
As I sipped my drink, I wandered around, discreetly viewing the invitees who’d begun their debauched festivities early. I never took part in scenes on the club floor because exhibitionism wasn’t one of my kinks and I preferred the privacy of my own room, tools, and toys, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying the visual delights offered on a nightly basis.
At this very minute, in Santa’s grotto, two eager, pointy-eared elves sucked and deepthroated Santa’s hard candy cane while Santa harshly spanked Rudolph’s ass, giving a new meaning to the words shiny and bright. Meanwhile, in one of the cages hanging over the floor, a sub draped in fairy lights writhed and danced for everyone’s pleasure.
Later, after Vivian and I had finished in my room, there would be plenty of time to observe and partake in the revelry on the club floor. My dick twitched thinking about my very own festivities. I had a night of flogging, fingering and fucking planned and since Vivian was late, I also planned to punish her with orgasm denial. Cruel but necessary. She knew how I felt about tardiness. I disliked it as much as I disliked dishonesty and disloyalty.
For the past six months, she’d been a good but a somewhat humdrum sub. Her contract was up in the New Year, and it was time for both of us to move on. Something she wasn’t thrilled about.
Our parting of ways might not have happened if she hadn’t started showing up at my apartment and office unannounced and uninvited. I would have considered extending her time with me, but she made the mistake of expecting more than I’d agreed to give. From day one she knew the deal. A long-term commitment was my hard limit. Anything more than a limited and contracted partnership with anyone wasn’t in the cards for me.
To my left, tinkling bells caught my attention, and I glanced over to see where the sound was coming from. Katrina, a young pink-haired sub with whom I’d acted out several scenes in the past, ran up to me with a sprig of mistletoe clasped between her fingers. Mischief sparkled in her hazel eyes, and a smile played on her rosebud lips.
The low neckline of her obscenely short renaissance-style dress revealed tweezer-style clamps with silver bells attached to the ends and fastened to her ripe nipples. Offering her a contract had frequently crossed my mind, but I’d been too slow to act, and Killian Delaney snapped her up before I’d had the chance to.
Perhaps that had been for the best, since Killian was besotted with the little imp, and a Christmas engagement wouldn’t surprise me. Some doms were dumb enough to fall in love with their subs. But not me. I was fucking smart enough to keep it professional, always.
“Merry Christmas, Sir. May I have a kiss?” She asked, holding the mistletoe above her head.
Annoyance at her question bristled inside me. She knew better than to ask for a kiss.
“Where’s Master Killian, sub?”
She lowered her eyes before she spoke. “I’m not sure, Sir.”
“Does your Master know you’re running around the club asking for kisses?” I pressed two fingers beneath her chin, and said, “You may look at me when you speak.”
“It’s our game, Sir. If he catches me, then I’m in big trouble.”
Amusement trickled through me, washing away my previous annoyance, and I chuckled at the naughty sub’s evident desire to have her master catch her. “We both know how much you love trouble, don’t we, Kat?”
“Oh, yes, Sir, very much. So, can I have a kiss?”
When I stared directly into her eyes, she visibly swallowed. “You know it’s against my rules to kiss anyone, pet.”
Her lips quivered, and she appeared seconds away from crying. “Not even a kiss on my cheek?” she asked, turning her face. “It’s Christmas.”
“Well, since it’s Christmas, I’ll allow it.” I lowered my lips to her cheek and pressed a quick kiss to her soft, floral scented skin. Upon lifting my lips, I reached up and gave her hair a gentle tug. “Run, little sub. I see your Master approaching, and he looks pissed.”
She gave me a quick nod and a wide Miss America smile. “Thank you, Sir.” And with a delighted squeal, she scampered away with bells ringing in her wake.
As Killian passed, I said, “You have your work cut out for you with that one.”
“Exactly how I like it, mate.” With a pat on my shoulder, he darted past in search of his prize.
I continued to walk around, occasionally stopping to catch up with old friends. My patience with Vivian’s lateness was wearing thin. She would pay dearly for making me wait. After one more lap around the floor, I took a seat at the bar and ordered my second and last drink of the night.
I’d been a member of the club since it had opened. Over the years, I’d watched many members come and go. I’d helped celebrate marriages and births, and grieved when members went to meet their maker. But lately, I’d found myself growing tired. While not exactly boring, being a member was no longer as thrilling as it once was. The place no longer held the allure it once
did.
At forty, maybe I was too fucking old to play games with subs. Perhaps I needed a new challenge, but I didn’t know what that new challenge might be. I was at the top of the investment world and had billions in the bank. My new memoir released in two days, and I gave motivational talks all around the world. I had everything I might want, but it didn’t seem enough. No matter how hard I pushed myself and no matter how much I achieved or how many accolades or awards I won, nothing appeared to fill the gaping emptiness inside of me.
“You not taking part?” Nathan, one of my neighbors, stood beside me and nodded towards a scene involving Master Dylan, his sub Lizzie, a dildo sculpted from ice and restraints fashioned from fairy lights.
“You know me— that’s not my thing. Plus, Vivian is on her way. Or she should be.”
Members gathered around to watch Dylan at work. The icy dildo began to melt on contact with Lizzie’s pussy, and her eyes glazed over with passion and need. She was vocal in her pleasure, and when Dylan told her to remain silent, her moans increased in volume. Were she mine, I would punish her for not listening— in a way that would make her scream even louder.
Nathan casually leaned against the bar and gestured for a beer. “I thought you and Vivian were done.”
I continued to watch the scene play out. Lizzie’s tits jutted out, bouncing as she writhed against the fast-melting toy. Her moans now reaching a fucking crescendo of desire.
“We are. Tonight is our last contracted night. I invited her here as a reward. She’s been asking to come here since we signed our contract.”
It hadn’t been a good idea, to mix the Expose Club, which I considered my personal life, with my “relationship” with Vivian, which was entirely professional. But now that we were ending, I’d figured granting her that wish as a Christmas present couldn’t hurt.
Loved by the LumberJacks_A MFMMMM Reverse Harem Romance Page 93
