Promiscuous (Tease 2)

I sat upright in the bed, breathing hard. I must've fallen asleep. The last thing I remember was Roman—oh my God, I didn't want to think about that right now. How could I show my face to him again? He probably thought I was a nutcase, which wouldn't be too far from the truth, but hearing that name…Bethy.

I reached over, grabbed two Tylenol off my bedside table, and took them with some water.

Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me?

***

Was he still there? I glanced at my phone. I'd been asleep for nearly five hours. Surely he would've left by now. Standing up, I pulled on my robe, tying it around my waist. I tiptoed down the hallway and kicked around the corner into the living room.

My heart swelled at the sight of Roman curled up on the sofa with his head resting on a cushion, fast asleep. Very quietly, I walked over to him and sat in one of the armchairs opposite. I could sit there and watch him sleep all day. As creepy as that was, that's what I felt like doing. There was no denying how protected he made me feel. Exactly what that meant, I hadn't figured out yet.

Chapter Thirteen

Roman

I was still confused by her sudden change in mood when I arrived at the club. I hadn’t been planning on going there that night, but I was getting frustrated. I needed familiarity. I needed to be able to relax, and this place was the only place that would allow me to do that.

I entered through the back and made my way down to my office, smiling at a couple of the girls on my way.

“Hello, ladies.”

They smiled back, their eyes meeting before they burst into giggles. I got that reaction a lot around here. To most of these girls, I was a man with a lot of mystery about him. I kept largely to myself.

It seemed the less people knew about you, the more attractive you became. That was a big part of the allure of this club: the anonymity. People didn't come here to make friends. They weren't looking for love, or looking for a new tennis partner. They came here to play a role, to fulfill a fantasy. No questions, no expectations, and no shame.

Inside my office, I let the door shut and buzzed through to reception.

“Alli speaking.”

“Hello, Alli, can you bring me a coffee please?”

“Certainly, Mr. Hale.”

I hung up and then flicked on the security monitors and studied them closely. I recognized a few people—some as regulars, and some who had high profiles within the community. I knew the overweight man with the graying hair was grand jury judge Terrence Manfeld. And the slight Asian woman on the sofa with her husband was a national TV newscaster.

I watched as one of my girls engaged with them, laughing and talking, before leading them into a room down at the end of the premises. Judge Manfeld followed, taking a seat in one of the two armchairs outside the room.

In essence, Protégé was an exclusive swingers club with a BDSM focus. Most people associated swinging with bad seventies hairstyles and out-of-control parties thrown by middle-aged parents involving a bowl full of keys. That couldn’t be further from the reality I offered.

Protégé was pure class. I made sure of that.

It was a place where people could live their fantasies of anonymous BDSM without the fear of judgment. Every member of the club signed a non-disclosure form prior to entry. The rules in place were there for every member’s protection, and they were non-negotiable.

I’d learned before that people who were insistent on breaking the rules were unlikely to adhere to threats. Any member caught breaking the rules would be immediately removed, without warning or a second chance. Break the rules, and you were out—permanently.

Every one of Protégé’s members had something to lose by coming here. My job was to keep the place invisible. Where most places thrived on exposure and exclusivity, mine relied on staying out of the public eye. Whether you were ‘happily’ married, trying new experiences with a partner, or just into experimental sex, Protégé could accommodate you.

A membership did not guarantee you entry whenever the mood hit. Bookings were still required for all non-VIP members. As of the month before, our membership was up around two thousand, five percent of whom were VIP. Some members came once a year, some once a month. Everybody was different, and there were no attendance obligations. We had people who had been members for months and had yet to experience what the club could offer them.

The club offered regular theme nights, and tonight was the perfect example: public humiliation.

It sounded much more hardcore than it actually was. Or maybe I was just desensitized to it. In approximately fifteen minutes, a pretty young thing was going to be suspended in midair wearing nothing but the ropes that would bind her ankles.

It actually surprised me how popular the public humiliation nights were. Usually theme nights would take place once every few months; this one had turned into somewhat of a monthly thing, though. The waiting list to participate exceeded six months. We had all types of people wanting to watch and wanting to be humiliated. It was all voluntary, and participants could stop at any moment—though they rarely did. I'll admit it: standing anonymously with a crowd of bystanders watching a woman bound and gagged get fucked senseless from every angle was incredibly arousing.

Had I participated? No. Would I? Probably not.

For me, the turn-on was purely a visual thing. Some would say it was disgusting. That it was degrading to both the men and women who were being humiliated. But the thing you needed to remember was, the whole thing was voluntary.