I bring the whip away with a flourish, examining my patch worked efforts on his shoulders, back, and buttocks. They’re all nice and red, like the sunset or pink champagne. I touch gently. Admiringly, enjoying the tremble I imagine he has.
My trembling in real life only accentuates my interest in Jordan’s imagined tremble. His imagined gasp. I’m almost about to orgasm, so again I pull the stimulation away. As I do, I hear how ragged my breathing is. Feel how tight and iron-hard my body and muscles have become. I breathe into it though I’m finding that difficult as well. Even breathing makes my thong caress me in dangerous ways.
“You’ve had enough punishment, Jordan,” I imagine saying to him. “Turn around.”
He does obediently. I can see he wants to shield his cock from me but doesn’t because I haven’t ordered it.
“Good boy,” I purr, watching his erection bounce happily, gently at the praise. I meet Jordan’s eyes. “On your knees.”
Again, Jordan obeys immediately. He drops to his knees like a mortal before a goddess. Just the way I like it.
“Closer,” I say, spreading my legs for him. The flog is still in one hand loose at my sides. “Now you’re going to enjoy the lunch I cooked for you. And you’re going to tell me how much better it is than what you’ve been eating with your friends.”
“Oh, yes, Mistress,” Jordan says, breathlessly, as I crank up the speed on my vibrator, and change to a pattern that’s modeled after the movement of a tongue. Made to mimic oral sex.
He quickly walks himself over to me on his knees, and the minute he’s within reach, I grab him by the hair and pull him in for a big drink of my pussy. A mouthful of my essence.
In time with my vibrator, I imagine Jordan’s tongue coming down on me from behind my pubic hair. My lips.
His tongue seeks me out like a missile, lands on me like a hungry animal. He licks firmly, but with heart. Soul. Like he’s being set free by doing this for me, not enslaved. His moaning and sipping sounds back this up.
He licks and sucks deeply, penetrating the deeper parts of my folds and clit with his tongue. Lips. Breath. And I’m quickly overwhelmed. As I imagine Jordan saying, “This is a delicious meal, Mistress. The best I’ve ever had. Better than what I’ve been eating with my friends,” my pussy pulses. Rages out against the underwear and the vibrator head, making me scream-squeal.
I imagine that he continues to pleasure me, even as I push his face in deeper. Spread my legs further apart, so I’m almost sitting on his face, even with him kneeling.
And still, I hear him moaning. Tasting. Enjoying.
And that’s when I come, crying out his name. At the same time, I cry tears of joy and overwhelm.
“Jordan,” I scream, “eat all of me. Eat until you're full! Oh, God, Jordan.”
In my head, he’s breathing deeply of me, of my musk, and drinking whatever liquid I produce.
“You’re so sweet,” I moan, feeling my entire body convulse under another giant wave of pleasure. “Jordan, I want you to be my good boy. You are my good, good boy.”
With that, I release completely. Let go of every bit of tension and fluid, and I imagine Jordan being happily bathed in it. Baptized.
For a moment, I’m floating. I’m disembodied, caught in the space of my fantasy versus my reality. But I savor it, knowing Jordan exists here.
After what seems like an eternity, I come back to myself. Come back to awareness.
And the first thing I realize?
I was unbelievably loud. I’m not sure, but I think I can hear people in the rooms next to mine commenting on that fact. Crap.
Embarrassed, I squeeze my eyes closed. I didn’t mean to be that loud. Oh, well, it's not like I'll see these people again.
Opening my eyes, I get off the bed and straighten the comforter. I feel better. Relaxed. Somewhat sated if still a little embarrassed by my erotic vocalization. I unplug the vibrator and pack it back in my pink bag, which I’ve decided to take with me to the auction, or whatever event is happening promptly at eight.
I zip up the bag and take a moment to smooth my hands over my dress. From there, I make a quick stop by the bathroom to freshen up.
By the time I put the finishing touches to my eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick, it’s nearly seven-forty five. Thanks to my little masturbation session, I’m not as stressed or nervous as I was.
I chuckle at myself, grabbing my pink bag and heading out the door. “And my mother never believed me when I said it was a magic wand.”
Chapter 8 – Jordan
The rest of the day after the altercation and my chance meeting with Bianca in the hallway, is depressingly anticlimactic. Why? Because, I’ve done nothing but thirst for another glimpse of her. Another chance to soak her in. Talk to her.
But there’s been no sign of her.
Everywhere I go, there’s only a blank space. A void. A place where I want her to be. Need her to be but she isn’t.
Other girls are always there, trying to fill the space like cheap imitations. Like a living lie every other person has fallen for but me.
At first, I was despondent. Sad. Lonely with not seeing her.
But now, as evening draws on, and I’m standing in front of the mirror getting ready to go to the Exchange Club, I’m grumpy. Pissed.
Frowning at my reflection, I try to slick my hair back for the millionth time with some hair glue into something remotely “dignified” despite my longer, more laid-back hairstyle, I wonder why I’m bothering.
I stare at myself thinking, Why even bother going there again? No way in hell Bianca’s going to be there. Mariah and Jane were at the club because Alex gave them an invitation. He went out of his way to invite them. Nothing like that happened to me.
I yank on the water feeling frustrated. Lied to. They keep saying “oh, yeah we’ll help you find your girl, Jordan,” but it means nothing. The woman I want won’t be there. Isn’t going to be miraculously walking herself onto the stage waiting for the highest bidder.
I scrape the hair glue off my fingers, not caring that the water is hot enough to cook a lobster. I turn off the water in the next second and snap a hand towel off the looped holder. I’d have better luck staying here, but I have two bone-addicted dogs for friends. They won’t break their habit, ‘til I get thrown one.
Roughly, I dry my hands. As I do, I catch a glimpse of my ensemble in the mirror. I’m in a pair of slacks, fancy sneakers, and a salmon-colored polo. Over it, I’m wearing a diamond-white blazer. Not my usual style, but if I didn’t put something over it, Paul would accuse me of wearing “pink” to this thing.
And at this point, I don’t want to deal with his “good-natured” fun at my expense. I’ve had enough.
On my way to open the bathroom door, I grab a different bottle of cologne. Something besides the Marco de Polo, I usually wear. Instead of the sporty, lemon zest, this cologne sweetens me, like a cinnamon-and-clove-infused bottle of bourbon. I spray under my shirt, then move to the back and sides of my neck, and finally my wrists.
The minute I step outside the bathroom, Paul says, “Wow, done already? I thought for sure you’d need at least another hour.”
I frown at him, glancing meaningfully at Alex. The man who keeps insisting he and his brother make the “world’s best wingmen” and say, “we don’t have an hour. We have twenty minutes.”
I walk to the door and automatically pat my pockets checking for my phone and my ticket into the event. They’re both there, but I don’t feel any better. Any more like I’m ready to go and do this all over again.
Opening the door, I murmur, “Though it’ll probably feel like an hour once I get there and have to sit at the table again.”
Paul follows me. “Cheer up, Jordan. It’s about to be your big night, man.”
“A big failure, you mean,” I grumble as I walk toward the hotel's exit. The sooner I can get this failure-of-a-night started, the sooner I can wrap it up and come back here. Maybe catch a glimpse of Bianca. Maybe ask around and figure out wha
t room she’s in.
Paul catches up with me. For once he's being the responsible one and will drive us to the club. He deserves to do as much, considering I closed out the room and packed up for all three of us at Christmas after they went running like mad men after their women.
I’d probably do the same if I had my own woman. If it were Bianca I was trying to get back, but I’m not in that space right now. I’m just dreading the night ahead. Dreading the bland and boring women I know will come across that stage.
As we reach and walk past the reception desk, I say to Paul, “I forgot to mention there’s a creepy guy staying here. Had to chase him off on my way to lunch this afternoon. You might want to text Mariah and tell her to keep her and Jane localized to the room tonight.”
“Sure,” Paul says, sending a text.
I glance over at his phone and see he’s copied in Alex. Better to be safe than sorry.
Keeping the girls together and safe in the room will be easy. They’re already in Alex’s room hanging out for the evening painting each other’s toes or some other girly crap like that.
Outside, it’s dry for once. No fresh snow. No fog or ice. Just a cold, empty night sky. I should’ve ditched lunch, I think, wondering where Bianca is at this moment. Where in this whole resort she’s hiding. Or I should’ve at least offered for her to come with me, fuck what anyone else would’ve thought. Maybe then I wouldn’t be doing this bullshit.
I make it to Paul’s car. From somewhere behind me, he clicks the door open. I hop inside. Shotgun this time. Moments later, he reaches the car and steps into the driver’s seat.
Alex follows shortly after and jumps in back, much more excited about all of this than I am. Their eagerness is enough to make me want to punch them both.
There’s no point spending money tonight. It’ll do as much good as opening up the window on the freeway and throwing thousands of dollars into the icy wind.
But none of that matters to them. Without a care in the world, without any hint of disappointment, or any concept that I’m not one-hundred percent with their program, they take off toward our not-so-secret destination.
As we take the now-familiar roads, I let myself grouse. Bitch out loud. “I’m telling you. This is going to be a fucking phenomenal waste of time. And of my money.”
“Way to be positive, man,” Alex says. “Just let the Club work its magic. There’ll be something good there for you. If there wasn’t, we wouldn’t have the beautiful girls we have in our lives now. Right, Paul?”
“Exactly right,” he says, flicking his turn signal on. “And it helps that you’re not in sneakers and a baseball cap or wearing that ridiculous coat.”
I can’t take it anymore. I actually punch Paul’s bicep. Not playfully either.
He laughs me off saying, “Easy, boy. Save your frustrations for your girl.”
“I don’t want a girl. I want a grown-ass woman. Which I know is not going to be walking around that club.”
Alex flicks the back of my neck. I flinch under it, but don’t do any more in response. “Stop being so moody, Jordan. Just give it a chance, okay?”
No matter what I wanted to say to that, no matter what witty or snarky comment I wanted to sling back at him, it'll have to wait because we’re here. We’ve pulled into the shadowed parking lot of the even more mysterious mansion. A holdover from a bygone era only historians care about.
Paul cuts the engine, and Alex cuts the crap. Before I can put up any protest, he’s at my door, hauling me out of my seat. “You’re going down there, if I have to drag your sorry ass all the way to the door, you hear me?”
“And if you’ve heard me,” I say through gritted teeth, “you’d know there’s no fucking point to any of this,”
For all his pulling, Alex hasn’t succeeded in doing much more than get me out of my seat belt.
But Paul, like always, has to give his baby brother a helping hand. A hand that unceremoniously shoves me out of the car completely.
“Get in there, and we’ll get you some chocolate. That should help with your PMS,” he says, shutting my door and locking it.
With that, I’m left to be dragged by Alex toward the basement and the Exchange Club waiting below.
Chapter 9 – Bianca
When I first arrive at my destination, I feel like a drunk stumbling from place to place. First into the right parking lot, then to the right old colonial/Victorian-looking mansion. Then it’s a mad dash into the basement, and to whatever part of that basement holds the Exchange Club.
Luckily for me, the moment I start my way down the stairs, I see the sign in big, bold gold lettering. I also see my mystery woman from the night before handing something to a doorman. She’s wearing a bright red blouse and a pair of black slacks. Her hair is just as wild as it was before, but now little red tips have been added to the spikes.
With me wearing my chunky, red high heels, my mystery woman hears me before she sees me. She turns in my direction. Watches, but doesn’t break out into a smile until I’ve descended into the light and out of the shadows.
“Glad you could make it,” she says, coming to help me off the last step and toward the doorman.
I wouldn’t normally be up for receiving help from a woman like this (she’s leading me like a princess at a ball), but with my heavy bag of fun in my other hand, it’s nice to have the support.
Plus, it makes it a breeze to get in. I don’t even have to take out the card she gave me. I only have to let her do the talking. Which she does, the moment we reach the doorman. “She’s with me, Bud.”
“Very good,” is all the man says as he opens the door for us and bows. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.”
My mystery woman hollers something back at him. I don’t hear what it is exactly, but that’s because I’m immediately taken by my surroundings. The dark, velvety vibes. Everything looks like it’s been draped in plush fabric. The walls, the carpets, even the furniture — though I know they must be made from wood and stone. The textures are so soft and luxurious in the dimly lit room.
And as for the mouth-watering aroma scenting the room. Oh my God! That takes my breath away more than anything else. I don’t know how they’ve done it, but the people running this place have somehow distilled the essence of chocolate dipped strawberries into a perfume. Into a spritz that coats the air and kisses me from every corner of the room.
“I always like what they do with this place on Valentine’s,” my mystery woman murmurs as she guides me elegantly through the even more elegant tables and chairs. The room is already filled with other guests who give the club a welcoming warmth.
“Tonight, it’s got a lot more romance than it usually does,” she says, her tone dropping as we pass by a particularly crowded table. Not so much testosterone.”
Crowded of course, with men.
“Though there is still going to be plenty of that flowing this evening,” she continues, walking me up to what I realize now is a giant stage. Luxurious, wine-colored curtains drape all around it. Rose petals are scattered across the hardwood stage, and some bouquets hanging as decorative pieces.
Tapping sounds nearby, like someone walking in very heavy, very nice dress shoes gets my attention. Accompanying the sound, appears a woman. She’s dressed in a tuxedo, Fedora and white gloves. Not your typical feminine dress, but who am I to judge?
I’m here to find a man who wants to be dominated by me for a night. That’s not typical “feminine” behavior either. At least not according to the few boyfriends I’ve been unfortunate enough to have.
The moment the woman in the tuxedo sees us, she makes a beeline in our direction. She takes off her fedora, almost sharing a secret greeting with my escort.
“Evangeline!” She reaches for her. Kisses her on both cheeks. For real. Not just the fake air thing people do in my neck of the woods. “So good to see you back. It’s been a while.”
Evangeline, my mystery woman unboxed, says, “It has, hasn’t it, Tory?”
; Tory's eyes slide to me. Intrigued, but also confused. Surprised. She looks me up and down. Mostly seeming to appreciate my dress choice for the evening. Particularly my pink bag. She hums at it thoughtfully before snapping her eyes back to Evangeline. “So, Evan, am I to assume you and your” — she searches for the right word—“Gir—”
“Guest,” I supply quickly, “guest.” I take my hand out of Evangeline’s, and thankfully she doesn’t seem bugged by it.
Tory clears her throat, putting her fedora back on. “Guest,” she says. “Am I to assume that you and your guest are going to be participating in our auction this evening?”
I step forward, not waiting for Evangeline to answer for me. “Yes. Yes, I am,” I say, though I have no idea what exactly the auction entails. I have some wisps of an idea. And some beginnings of what I might put up for auction if it's what I think it is, but my thoughts may change once I see how everything really works. How it’s done.
“So am I,” Evangeline murmurs.
Tory practically clicks the heels of her dress shoes together as she turns. “All right then, ladies. This way, please.” With that, she heads for the stage and into the bright lights.
Walking up the steps and onto the stage, I keep my bag close and my eyes peeled. Rows and rows of tables stretch before me. Endless collages of faces.
But there’s one face I’m startled and overjoyed to see. Jordan’s. The poor guy doesn’t look happy to be here. He looks miserable. Almost sick as he sits there. He’s surrounded by two guys I don’t recognize and don’t care for. They’re a mixture of clean-shaven and rugged, not something I’m into.
Doms, I think. No wonder a guy like Jordan looks so glum being sandwiched between them. As I take my place next to Evangeline — Tory’s started a line with us and is busily adding other women — I say silently, don’t worry, Jordan. If you’re the good boy I think you want to be, I’ll get you out of your personal hell. Just wait.
I exhale deeply, watching him take a drink of something very big, very alcoholic and very Valentine’s Day. Just… Please look this way.
Four Billionaires for St. Patrick's Day Page 61
