Black Light_Valentine Roulette

by Livia Grant

  Which brought her back to her current quest for an orgasm.

  She clicked another link and watched a dick saw in and out of a woman’s mouth.

  “Yeah, baby, that’s it. Suck it. Suck it hard.”

  It wasn't like she'd ever do this in real life. It would never be her on her knees, big doe eyes silently begging a man to use her. Settling back, Chessie cradled the phone in her left hand while her right index finger moved frantically against her clit. Her abdomen tightened, a tendril of arousal curling through her.

  “You’re just a whore,” a male voice growled. On screen, the dick pulled out of the woman’s mouth and started slapping her face.

  Chessie jabbed her cellphone screen, stopping the video with a sound of disgust, and whatever arousal that had been building faded away.

  Maybe it was time to give in and download that erotic novel, the really smutty one with the five cowboys who kidnap one woman. The last time she’d read it, she’d cum over and over to the scene of them tying their captive up and dominating her. Afterwards, she’d deleted the book from her e-reader in shame.

  Desperate times called for desperate measures, and she hadn’t cum in a really, really long time.

  A reminder popped up on her phone. ‘Speaker Dinner 7pm’.

  "Crap." Chessie swung out of bed. Stretching the cramped fingers of her right hand, she fished through her closet with her left. Usually she was more organized than this, but her pussy’s annoyance was taking over her brain. She’d just spent sixty minutes scrubbing her clit, swiping through pictures of celebrities, sports stars, heck, even old boyfriends. Nothing excited her until she saw the picture of the woman on her knees. But she didn’t really want that sort of thing... did she?

  Her phone chimed its reminder again. She silenced it, and closed all the porn and sexy book links even as her pussy wailed in protest and the last of her arousal died a sad, quavering death. Her lady garden was going to wither like a neglected houseplant if she didn’t get some action, soon.

  Maybe this February she’d talk her roommate into going out of town, get some privacy. She’d buy a vibrator, download a nasty novel, and spend a romantic weekend all by herself.

  Happy Valentine’s Day to her.

  Half an hour later, Chessie wove past round tables filled with power people and their aides at the hotel ballroom. She’d missed the early networking, but with her lack-of-orgasm frustration, that was probably a good thing.

  On her power walk to her seat, she caught a few rubber neckers. In addition to her usual ‘uniform’ – that’s what her roommate called it – of black on black shirt and slacks, she’d added a pair of patent leather red pumps. The fuck-me pumps were her roommate’s, and a bit racy for D.C., but Chessie was in a mood.

  The admiring looks lasted only until the men caught sight of her resting bitch face. Fine. If any man hit on her tonight, she’d probably bait him into a conversation on wage equality just so she could snarl at him.

  Servers were laying down appetizers as Chessie found her place. She was the first at her table to arrive, so she circled it to read the names on the place cards to see if she recognized anyone. D.C. was just a small town, after all. A small town filled with bigwigs – or smallwigs who thought they were important. When she’d first come here, she’d been dazzled by every judge, ambassador, and elected official. Now she was just tired of the boring suits – most of them assholes really, scrambling to get their slice of the power pie.

  God, she really needed to cum...

  At her table, the most prominent guest was a senator. Senator Peyton B. Kane III. She ran through her mental files, trying to place the name with a state. One of the southern ones, Georgia maybe. Another white man with a charming drawl and enough of daddy’s money to send him to law school and launch him into a career pandering to the other rich, white men who told him how to vote in the back rooms of their country club.

  Welcome to politics.

  “Ma’am? I think you’re at my seat.” She turned, place card in hand, and looked up at the most incredible pair of blue eyes.

  Oh, mama, this one was pretty.

  Even with her in fuck-me heels, the senator stood a good six inches taller than her. She was right on the money, too – by the looks of him this one came from lots of it, old money. Preston Kane the Third was white, and male. Pale skin, patrician features. The only thing that threw off this picture of fine breeding was the mouth – a tad too lush – and the tips of his sandy hair – a tad too long and curling into boyish, blondish curls.

  He didn’t look that much older than her – though he was probably closer to 35. He stood politely with what looked like a bevy of aides at his back – all young, fresh-faced white men.

  “If you’d be so kind, I think the speaker’s about to begin.” Just a faint trace of a good ol’ boy southern accent, but it was there, two-stepping with the polite words he learned at his mama’s knee.

  “Of course.” She recovered and set the place card down before stepping to her seat half way around the table. To her surprise he followed her, and pulled the appropriate chair out for her to sit. Usually she brushed off charm school manners as cheap and overbearing, but as the senator took care to guide her into her seat, something in her woke up and paid attention.

  The forty-five minute talk on the transforming power of women in leadership, delivered by a Rwandan politician and rape survivor, should’ve captivated Chessie. Instead, every cell in her body was tuned into the tall blond senator across the table from her. He ate little and kept his attention on the speaker, his tall frame relaxed yet focused. His aides often leaned in to whisper some unknown piece of commentary to each other, but his attention never wavered, except to thank the servers in a low but clear murmur. From the blush on one of the young lady server’s cheeks, Chessie wasn’t the only one taken with his old world charm.

  When the talk ended, the waiters served coffee and dessert, but everyone lingered for the real purpose – the meeting after the meeting. During the talk, the rest of their table had streamed in, which, in Chessie’s opinion, was unspeakably rude, but unfortunately common in a city full of self-important people. As soon as the applause faded after the closing remarks, the latecomers vied for audience with Senator Kane, who entertained them while his aides continued their whispering and Chessie picked at the bit of dairy fluff on top of a sliver of dry chocolate cake that served as dessert. As far as networking went, this evening was a bust, so she just sat and stared at the beautiful man across the table from her.

  Her peaceful contemplation ended when she heard a buzzword from her job.

  “Sounds a bit like Affirmative Action for feminists to me,” one of the aides said to the others. “Requiring thirty percent of government seats to be filled by women. People should vote for who they want to vote for.”

  “Next thing they’ll want is an all-women government.” The aides guffawed and Chessie couldn’t stop herself.

  “Why not?” she muttered loudly enough for the smug aides to hear. “We’ve had an all men one.”

  The men regarded her and she gave her best fake smile.

  “You really think a minimum quota of women leaders is something that will work here?” The aide who spoke had produced a toothpick from some pocket and was working it between his teeth.

  “Why not? It had an amazing effect in Rwanda. I know one country isn’t a large enough sample size –”

  “Of course it’s not, sweetheart,” he cut her off and exchanged smirks with his buddies.

  “Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” she snapped with enough force that the rest of the table stopped talking and paid attention.

  “I was just –” the aide started.

  “Now, Boyd, let the lady make her point.” Senator Kane’s drawl was more pronounced giving gentility to what was otherwise a firm order. “I’d like to hear her side. Ms. Jones.” He inclined his head.

  Chessie flushed. One, he knew her name – he must have read if off her place card. Two, he
defended her – which irritated and satisfied her at the same time.

  “I acknowledge that we don’t have enough data to know if legislating a minimum quota for women representatives would be beneficial. But studies show that companies with diverse leadership are more successful. And so far, the same could be said of governments.”

  “Interesting point.” The senator moved to her, offering his hand. “As much as I’d like to continue this healthy debate, we really must be going. A pleasure, Ms. Jones.”

  She took it, ignoring a flash of heat that leapt between them. Those pretty, pretty eyes. Was that a hint of a real smile in the corner of his sensual mouth?

  His attention left hers and the table started to put on their coats to leave.

  Chessie let herself be carried along by the press of people, her hand still tingling from the touch of the senator’s.

  Outside the hotel, she paused a moment to take a breath of cold, clear air. D.C. could be so beautiful at night – the statues and Capitol building all lit. Not as lovely as spring when the cherry trees bloomed, but still.

  Tugging her coat around her, she started the brisk walk home, detouring through a private space between two buildings that was half stone walkways, half garden. There were two men in dark coats ahead of her, but the place was lit enough she wasn’t worried. They were probably guests from the same speaker dinner.

  “And what’d you think of that pretty piece of taffy?” The voice drifted back to her, echoing between the two buildings.

  “Fine, very fine,” came the reply. Chessie almost missed her step. That was Senator Kane’s voice.

  “Uppity, though.” In the building’s reflection, Chessie saw the speaker – the aide who’d sucked on toothpicks right at their table. He had one in his mouth now and was working it around his teeth as he spoke.

  “Give the lady some credit,” Senator Kane said. “She was just defending her corner.”

  “Uptight, too. Someone needs a session with the Kane,” Toothpick guffawed.

  Chessie’s face went hot, then cold. Were they talking about her? The only reason she didn’t call out and make the idiot choke on his own toothpick was that she wanted to hear what Kane said next.

  “Naw,” the senator drawled. “The Kane’s too advanced an implement for a beginner. Just a nice session over my knee... and then a good hard fuck. Always sets a lady straight.”

  Chessie missed a step and almost fell and cracked her face on the pavement. She caught herself just in time, only to have Senator Kane glance back at her. His baby blues pinned her.

  Despite the anger stiffening her body, she shivered. The aide was still walking, blabbing, but for a moment only she and Kane existed. She raised her chin. If she had any guts at all, she’d march forward in her harlot heels and slap the senator right across the face.

  Instead, she detoured between the buildings, and made her escape.

  “Asshole,” she whispered as she ran lightly down the alley, the senator’s voice still ringing in her ears.

  She slowed down for a moment to google Senator Kane on her phone. Yep, there it was: thirty-seven, the youngest senator out of Georgia. Unmarried. Daddy was big in business, while his mama was a former model and a debutante. Scrolling, she clicked for an image of the tall senator and got quite a few, including one stepping out of a car with a Miss Georgia pageant winner.

  She took the steps up to her apartment two at a time.

  “Mina?” she called, and listened, but didn’t hear anything besides the rumbling in the radiator as it prepared a blast of Death Valley heat. Her roommate wasn’t home. She was alone.

  Tearing off her coat and kicking off her shoes, she rushed to her bedroom, flopped down and spread her legs. She found a close up image of the senator – wearing a suit and a handsome, half smile.

  Transferring her phone to her left hand, she slipped her right in her pants and... hello. Wet and slippery, just as she’d suspected. Her fingers moved tentatively.

  Images flashed through her head – the good senator talking, his casual drawl as his eyes flicked up and down her curvy form. Only this time, he said the phrases she’d only read in the raunchiest erotic stories.

  “Strip,” he’d say. “On your knees.” And then the more hardcore images – her sucking him, stroking her body at his command. Her body tightened at the thought of submissively lapping at his balls, taking his cock and... more… doing what he ordered. He’d pull his cock out of her mouth and trace her lips, smiling like a shark as he told her, “These belong to me.”

  “No.” She wrenched her hand away, even as her whole body quivered on the edge of orgasm. This was wrong. So wrong. Thinking about the senator like that, with her on her knees like a naughty intern. What the fuck was wrong with her?

  The front door to the apartment slammed, interrupting her shame spiral.

  “Chess? You home? How did the dinner go?”

  “Fine!” Chessie scrambled to fix her clothes. Mina had the energy of a chihuahua on speed – and just as little concept of personal space.

  Mina stuck her head into Chessie’s bedroom a second later. “Just fine?” Dark, straight, shoulder length hair and too-big glasses, Mina looked like Marcy from the Peanuts cartoon. Except this nerd had quite a mouth on her. “You look as tired as a street walker on Saturday night.”

  “Thank you. Thanks for that.”

  “Seriously, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been looking forward to this dinner for ages.”

  What had the speech been about again? “Uh, it was really good.” Chessie wracked her brain and came up with a memory of the senator sitting across from her at the table, one long finger absently stroking the white tablecloth. “Inspiring. I was just stuck at a table with some senator’s people.”

  “Huh,” Mina said, and popped out of Chessie’s room again, only to shout across the apartment two seconds later, “What happened to my shoes? Looks like you ran a Tough Mudder in them, and left them in the Potomac.”

  “Sorry,” Chessie winced. “I’ll buy you a new pair.” With great reluctance, she deleted the pictures of the senator off her phone before Mina bounced back into her room.

  “Well, I’ll forgive you, if you do me a favor... no,” Mina corrected. “Do yourself a favor.” She held out what looked like an invitation, printed on black paper.

  “What’s this? Another speaker dinner?”

  “Nope. Ticket to your wildest dreams.”

  Chessie snorted but plucked the paper out of her roommate’s hand. “Black Light’s Valentine Roulette? What’s this?”

  “You know Club Runway – the one where Cash Carter played a few months ago?”

  “Is that the hot night club in Georgetown? The one opened by the famous threesome?”

  “Yes... but wait, there’s more.” Mina waggled her eyebrows. “Guess what they built under the music venue.”

  “A basement?”

  “Yes. Oh, wait...I have to swear you to secrecy first. You must tell no one what I am about to reveal to you – that under the hottest club in town is… wait for it...a sex club.”

  Images of the club owners – a very hot, very out threesome made up of two guys and one lucky girl – spilled through Chessie’s head.

  “A BDSM sex club.” Mina enunciated each word as if they tasted like candy.

  “What? No.” Chessie tried to hand the ticket back, and when Mina wouldn’t take it, she sputtered, “Why would I be interested in that?”

  “Because. Oh come on, Chess, I’ve seen the porn you look at. I wasn’t spying –” She held up both hands when Chessie stiffened. “You handed me your phone to look up a recipe and I saw your search history.”

  “That was... research.” Chessie felt her face redden. “For a white paper on... uh... exploited sex workers.”

  “Suuuure it was. Those naughty, naughty sex workers getting paddled in their school uniforms.”

  “What!? I never…”

  “Looking at spanking pictures isn’t a crime. Neither is ge
tting off to it. And this I do know – you haven’t been on a date for three years. Maybe longer – since college. You need to get off, girlfriend. I’m dying to use the ticket myself, but I can’t because I’m off for three months for the Chapman internship.”

  “You got it? Mina, that’s great!”

  “Yep. My dream internship, but I leave tomorrow. I gotta hurry up and pack.” Mina all but ran to the closet by the front door and dragged out a suitcase larger than her – along with half the detritus in the closet. Chessie rushed in to keep the avalanche from engulfing her petite roommate.

  “Okay, okay, slow down.”

  “I can’t! I need you to hold down the fort, and go to the club. Experience, explore. Maybe bag a big bad Dom and bring him back here.”

  Chessie frowned at the piece of paper in her hand. It was beautiful, black with gilt lettering and a sort of shimmery code on it. She wasn’t sure whether to frame it or burn it. “Mina... I don’t know.”

  “Do it for me.”

  “You want me go to a sex club for you?”

  “When you put it like that…” Mina paused her flurry of motion to gnaw on her lip. “I promised one of the employees that I’d go. They need more subs that night, for this Roulette thing they’re doing. Oh – I just remembered, you have to sign a privacy thing, an NDA.”

  “This is too much.”

  “Chessie, I promised. I already sent them an email telling them I had a replacement. If you go... and do the Roulette... I’ll pay your share of the rent for three months.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes,” Mina said with the satisfaction of someone who knows they’re about to win an argument. “The internship gave me a huge stipend for housing, but I’m staying with a friend. So I can cover rent for three months. But,” she held up a finger, “you have to go and –” She held up a second finger, “You have to get off.” She met Chessie’s glare with a shrug. “You’ve been so cranky, I can tell the closest you’ve gotten to sex is listening to Gangbang every night.”