by Bebe Balocca
A Total-E-Bound Publication
www.total-e-bound.com
Learning to Soar
ISBN # 978-1-78184-249-2
©Copyright Bebe Balocca 2013
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright February 2013
Edited by Sue Meadows
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2013 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 3.
This story contains 70 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 8 pages.
LEARNING TO SOAR
Bebe Balocca
What happens at Volare STAYS at Volare…
Ever since her relationship with Mark crashed and burned, Chloe’s been unable to take off and reach the big O. Enter Damien Walters, a deliciously unconventional sex therapist. Damien’s therapy sessions take place at his nightclub, and Chloe quickly sees why admittance to Volare is by invitation only. Volare’s patrons, who are Damien’s satisfied and discreet former clients, leave their inhibitions at the door when they walk past the bouncer. Anything goes on Volare’s dance floor…
Using a few key accessories and some hands-on help from Volare’s regulars, Damien enables Chloe to reach her full sexual potential once more. And he has a special proposal just for her—Chloe can join him on the Volare crew as his accountant and therapy assistant. It’s an offer Chloe can hardly refuse, especially given the fact that Damien’s the man with his hand on the throttle.
With the pulsing beat of Volare’s dance floor, the seductively suave Damien bent on pleasing her, and her newly restored sexual prowess, Chloe’s position at Volare seems like a dream come true. However, she’s going to have to help Damien get over some of his own issues in order for the two of them to soar together.
Dedication
To dancing queens everywhere.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Honda Accord: Honda Motor Company, Ltd.
Cinemax: Home Box Office, Inc.
Obsession for Men: Calvin Klein, Inc.
Ferrari: Ferrari S.p.A.
The Jetsons: Time Warner, Inc.
Bonne Bell: Bonne Bell
Diet Coke: The Coca-Cola Company
Disney: The Walt Disney Company
HP Calculator: Hewlett-Packard Company
Veuve Clicquot: LVMH Moët Hennessy
Publishers Clearing House: Publishers Clearing House
Powerball Lottery: Multi-State Lottery Association
Godiva: Yildiz Holding
Dungeons and Dragons: Wizards of the Coast
Dom Perignon: LVMH Moët-Hennessy
Kleenex: Kimberly Clark Corporation
Lycra: Invista
Patrón: The Patrón Spirits Company
eBay: eBay Inc.
The Three Stooges: C3 Entertainment, Inc.
Chapter One
Monica eased her Accord into a kerb-side spot and turned off the motor. Even though the sedan’s windows were raised and its doors were closed, the thumping bass from the dance club pounded through the car like a racing heartbeat. A glowing rectangular sign proclaimed the club’s name, ‘Volare’, in bright blue letters on a black field. “Volare. It means ‘to soar’ in Italian,” Monica noted. “So, is tonight your night to soar, Chloe?”
Chloe brought her hands to her face and took a deep breath. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” She laughed uneasily. “I mean, seriously? A freelance sex therapist? He’s probably a pimp, or, like”—she made air quotes—“a movie producer.” Chloe snorted. “And what kind of name is Damien anyway? Are we dealing with the spawn of Satan here?”
“Chloe, you’re ridiculous. We’ve been over this a million times. My own therapist recommended him to me, and Donna’s totally legitimate. Part of Damien’s thing is that he won’t actually touch you at all. He’s very professional. Damien completely solved my insecurity problem. I’ve never felt better.” She placed a reassuring hand on Chloe’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Trust me. I promise I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
“Yeah, well, I agreed to this way back when I had a job,” Chloe complained. “Two hundred bucks is a ton of cash considering my current income level. Just start the car again, Monica. This was a dumb idea.”
Monica pulled the keys from the ignition, dropped them into her purse, then closed it with a snap. “Look, Chloe, it’s a big deal that you can’t reach orgasm.” Chloe exhaled with a whoosh as Monica continued, “Just because Mark was a total dick and made you feel like a loser when he dumped you, your sex life doesn’t have to end. It’s been three years and you haven’t gotten off. That, my friend, is criminal.”
“Yeah, well, lots of women don’t reach orgasm. It’s not the end of the world,” Chloe protested feebly.
“Yeah, and lots of women settle for elastic-waist mom jeans, low thread-count sheets, and flabby frozen dinners. That doesn’t mean that these things are actually okay, Chloe! You are a woman of discriminating taste. A woman who enjoys the finer things. Fine food, fine wine, fine friends”—she flipped her wavy auburn hair off her shoulders and cleared her throat—“and fine sex. Trust me you’ll thank me for this. And with your, um, new employment situation, you’re going to want some hot, satisfying sex with a new guy. It’ll definitely help with the job hunt. You’ll be all loose and limber and raring to go. Think of it as an investment in yourself. The price is totally worth it, and besides, Damien has a satisfaction guaranteed policy.”
“But this guy”—Chloe bit her lip—“is he, you know, nice? Is he creepy or pervy or anything? What’s he going to do anyway?”
“He’s a nice guy, for sure, but I don’t know what treatment he’s going to suggest for you. It’s all very personalised,” Monica answered. “For my problem, we did some exercises that boosted my self-esteem and made me feel like the hot, sexy woman that I am. Your problem is entirely different because you know you’re hot, right? You just need some help hitting it out of the park when you get up to bat. All the strike-outs you’ve been having in bed are making you afraid to play ball.” Monica grinned impishly. “You know, if you’re that worried about getting help from a stranger with your orgasm problems, I’d be happy to offer my services as a friend. I’d even do it for free!” She gave Chloe’s nipples a quick tweak.
Chloe swatted Monica’s hands away with an indignant cry and unsnapped her seatbelt. “Fine,” she acquiesced with a laugh. “Fine. If my options for becoming orgasmic again are you”—she paused as Monica batted her eyes and pursed her lips with theatrical glee—“or a total stranger who’s a freelance sex therapis
t, I guess I’ll go for the total stranger.” Chloe opened her car door. Thumping techno music flooded the vehicle.
Chloe turned back to Monica and spoke over the music, “Why is his office in a nightclub anyway? That’s pretty weird.”
Monica shrugged. “Damien likes to have his therapy appointments in his office at Volare because it’s convenient. He owns the club, you know. Besides, sometimes the setting comes in handy.”
“Huh? How does it come in—?” Chloe attempted to ask, but Monica had already left the car and was headed towards Volare. The ground level dropped dramatically from the front of the club to the back, so that the main entrance was on the ground floor, while the rear exit was on the basement floor. The long, boxy brick building was nestled between two busy streets. Its frosted windows provided no clues about the interior, and as it was her first visit to Volare, Chloe was curious about what lay within. Rumour had it that it was a ‘by invitation only’ establishment.
Chloe stepped out onto the kerb and tugged her miniskirt down. Normally, she’d never wear such a teeny little skirt—that was Monica’s style—but tonight Monica had put her foot down. When she’d gone to pick Chloe up earlier that evening and had seen the jeans she had been wearing, Monica had shaken her head in frank disapproval. “No way are you wearing that to Volare,” she’d stated in a voice that had brooked no argument. “Good thing I’ve got a spare outfit or two in the trunk of my car for emergencies.”
Monica had permitted Chloe to keep her champagne metallic top. It tied behind her neck with long silky ribbons, left her arms and shoulders bare, and had a plunging cowl neckline. Chloe’s black stiletto ankle boots had also been given a pass by Monica, her self-appointed stylist, but her jeans were currently folded on the back seat of the Accord. In lieu of the jeans, Monica had foisted a black micro-miniskirt on her. It had four zippers running from the hem to the waistband—one on the outside of each thigh, one pointing up to her chamber of secrets, and one right under her ass. Sexy, yes. Demure and ladylike, most decidedly no.
Chloe had complied with the wardrobe change—often it was easiest to just let Monica have her way—but refused to budge when it came to the zippers. “Just an inch or two?” Monica had pleaded. “This skirt is so hot when it looks like you’re about to flash your lady bits. Come on, Chloe!”
“Forget it, Monica. It’s not that I’m shy, but I look like a hooker already! I don’t want to look like a half-price hooker.”
“Yeah, well, hookers sell sex, Chloe. Did you ever think about that? They sell sex and they look sexy. It wouldn’t hurt to take a page from their style book every now and then.”
“I felt perfectly sexy in my jeans. Unless I’m mistaken, you were the one with the self-esteem issue, Monica. Although I see now that that’s fully resolved.”
Monica had grinned and fluffed her golden-red waves, and had hoisted her ample breasts together to admire her cleavage. “I do look good, don’t I?” She’d chuckled. Chloe had to agree that Monica was gorgeous—she looked better than she ever had. The one-shouldered mint dress she wore perfectly showed off her lush curves. Her braless tits swayed enticingly beneath the folds of soft green, and her erect nipples created sharp peaks in the thin fabric of her bodice. A criss-crossed ribbon belt lightly defined her waist and gave her dress a bit of a Greek toga feel. Chloe had been more than a little annoyed that Monica’s hemline was significantly longer than her own. It fell to just above her knees. “You look all nice and dressy,” Chloe had protested, “but I look like somebody who ought to be leaning against a street sign. It’s not fair.”
“Oh, poor Chloe. Do you want a better look at my legs?” Monica had teased. She’d lifted the hemline of her skirt playfully to expose her plump, creamy thighs. “You can look any time, girl.”
Chloe had yanked Monica’s dress down in exasperation and reconciled herself to her itsy-bitsy skirt. The skirt’s hemline was scandalously short, but at least the zippers were fully closed. A girl had to hold on to her dignity whenever she could, especially when the new and therapeutically improved Monica was involved.
Chloe caught up with Monica at Volare’s front door. A small crowd of hopeful patrons milled about on the sidewalk, chatting with each other and trying to catch the eye of the intimidating employee who stood at the door. Monica was talking—no, make that flirting—cosily with the bouncer, a six-foot, ebony-skinned, bald man with a huge diamond glinting in one earlobe. Monica, who was all of five-foot-three in her stiletto ankle-wrap sandals, had one arm draped casually over the bouncer’s muscular shoulder. She had propped her other hand on her waist and thrown her shoulders back. With her boobs bouncing with each flirty giggle, every man’s eyes were on Monica. Or, more to the point, on her bosom.
Chloe rolled her eyes. Monica was incorrigible.
Monica tore her eyes away from the admiring bouncer and beamed at Chloe. “This is Arnaud,” she shouted over the pounding music. “He was here when I had my session with Damien a few months ago.” She turned back to Arnaud and slid her hand down his shoulder to squeeze one thick biceps. “He’s an awesome asset to the club.” Monica gripped Chloe’s waist and pulled her close. “This is my friend Chloe, Arnaud. She’s about to meet Damien back in his office to discuss a personal issue. I think I’ll just wait for her inside Volare. I’m sure I can find something to do.” She pursed her lips meaningfully at Arnaud.
Arnaud’s dark eyes glittered at Monica then he tore his gaze away and turned to Chloe, who fidgeted irritably as he studied her. When he raised his eyes at last to meet Chloe’s she glared at him. “Nice to meet you, Chloe,” Arnaud said in a voice as deep as rolling thunder.
“Let’s go, Monica,” she insisted and gave Monica’s elbow a swift yank. “I don’t want to be late for my appointment. If, that is, Arnaud here is done checking me out.”
Arnaud turned back to Monica and quirked one corner of his mouth. “Your friend is cute, Monica,” he noted, raising his voice to be heard over the music, “but she’s a little uptight. I bet Damien can help her out with that. My shift is over in about thirty minutes. I’ll find you inside and buy you a drink. Tequila sunrise, right?”
Monica pulled his face down to hers and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. “You have a memory like an elephant,” she said loudly, “and, as I recall, that’s not all you have that’s large and impressive.”
Arnaud bent down again and kissed Monica on the lips. The smile was gone from his face and he stared at her with base desire.
Chloe wrenched Monica away from Arnaud and pulled her into the club. The friends emerged onto a wide sitting area with subdued lighting, low cocktail tables and midnight blue, velvet-upholstered lounge chairs. The balcony encircled a teeming dance floor. A few patrons were in the lounge chairs on the upper level, but the majority of the club’s guests were downstairs. Music and laughter bubbled up from the first floor like a social lava lamp on overdrive. Monica led Chloe to the sweeping wrought-iron staircase near the club’s entrance. They descended to the ground floor together.
Chapter Two
The sound was almost overwhelming at this level. It was nearly impossible to hear anything other than the pervasive pulse of the music. Walking by the crowd of bodies on the dance floor, Chloe at once felt more comfortable in her outfit. She saw arms, legs, backs and stomachs exposed as bodies contorted in a modern mating dance. Strobe lights flashed and multicoloured spotlights whirled around the room. They gave the scene a surreal, movie-like quality.
Monica spoke into Chloe’s ear, “I’ll get us some drinks, and then we’ll find Damien.” Chloe nodded and leaned against a chrome table as Monica went to place an order at the bar.
A tangle of limbs and faces writhed in front of her. It seemed threatening, or at least confusing, out there, but the dancers were clearly enjoying themselves. Hands were up in the air in tribal exuberance, or else gripping dance partners’ bodies. Legs entwined with legs and pelvises ground against each other suggestively.
One song ended by simply
merging into the next, the songs connecting like rail cars pulled along by an unending drumbeat. The vocals and instrumentals of the first song melted away, leaving only a throbbing pulse behind. That melodic void lasted a few seconds before being filled. Over and over, a new voice belted out a different riff on an ageless winning formula—emotional longing plus sexual urgency equals imminent passion. The bar’s patrons on the dance floor didn’t miss a beat.
The couple closest to Monica were pressed against each other tightly. An Asian woman with waist-length black hair moved her shoulders and hips to the beat, while her dance partner, a heavily muscled man with a blond crew cut, ran his hands up and down her slender ribs, waist and hips. Chloe doubted that a sheet of paper would fit between their snugly wedged bodies. The woman gripped the man’s rear, pulling him against her as she moved with the music. He reached beneath the hem of her soft pink slip dress and lifted it until the side of her sculpted hip was exposed.
A slim dark-haired man approached from behind the woman. An erection bulged brazenly from the front of his trousers, and he pressed it against the woman’s ass. She turned and, recognising him, smiled and pulled him against her back. The three of them swayed almost imperceptibly, barely even acknowledging the driving music with their movements.
The dark-haired man held the woman around the waist with one hand and lifted the other to fondle one breast through her dress. Her eyes fluttered open when he pinched her nipple, then closed again. She leant back against him and wrapped one slender leg around the blond man facing her. He fumbled with the fly of his pants, then pulled the woman’s face to his for an urgent kiss.
