Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
It's what keeps the people who come here silent. They don't talk about places like this because they don't want others talking about their time here.
I wait about half an hour before the door opens again, by yet a second woman.
"It's lovely to see you, Mr. Wiedman," she says as if we're lifelong friends about to catch up on each other's lives.
I can see many men feeling at ease around her, but I know better. Everything is an act. This is a business, and she's here to serve a purpose.
"We've processed your application fee. The remainder of what you have allows for these menu items," she says, handing me a leather-bound booklet. I imagine you're here for your usual?"
I tilt my head in confusion before I can catch myself. "My usual?"
She gives me a kind smile. "From the database, of course."
I don't question it because any man who has been to enough places like this wouldn't have to ask about it. He'd already know, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might be in a little over my head.
I didn't go into detail too deeply on Anthony Wiedman's character, only enough to know what his usual might be, but I trust Kincaid enough not to put me in any sort of seriously fucked-up situation.
"Can't wait," I say as I stand and follow her from the room.
This place is much more luxurious than Hale-ish, the sex club I went to back in the day. A couple of Kincaid's friends own the place back in Denver and we would take trips up there when we weren't working. I have to remind myself this isn't a sex club. The people at Hale-ish are all there to have a good time, and other than the business operating the establishment and workers stationed around the building to keep people safe, no one is getting paid. It's different for the workers here. The men and women here, performing sexual acts, are getting compensated. Well, they are if this is one of the illegal but legitimately run places.
The woman, it didn't get by me that she didn't introduce herself, walks ahead of me, but the sound of another woman's voice makes me stop in my tracks. Was that Cora Preston? I know she's here, and although I have no idea where in this massive house she might be, I'm reminded I'm not here for the usual but to make sure she's okay.
Other than the click-clack of the woman's shoes on the tile floor, I hear nothing else. Instead of following her, I reach for the doorknob of the closest room, thinking that it came from there, but when I shove open the bedroom door, it's not Cora that I find.
"Daddy isn't supposed to come home until after the baby's diaper change," a man says from the bed.
In a flash of a second, before I can manage to apologize and pull the door closed, I take in the room.
First comes the glaringly obvious—a grown-ass man with white at his temples, in a cloth diaper and nothing else, and a nearly naked woman standing beside the bed with a paddle in her hand.
"Mr. Wiedman," the woman who was escorting me growls in my ear as she reaches for the doorknob, closing the door on that scene, although I know without a doubt, it'll be in my head for years to come. "You know better."
"Sorry, I thought I heard someone call my name," I lie without thinking.
What other excuse would I have for opening a door in a place like this?
"Follow me," she says, some of her professionalism slipping to allow her annoyance to appear.
I have no doubt she'll get a stern reprimand because I didn't do as I was expected.
By the time we make it to the room reserved for me and my usual, she has that perfect serene smile back on her face.
"Get comfortable," she instructs as she opens the door and steps to the side. "Beth will join you in a moment."
I do my best to let my eyes adjust to the low light in the room once I'm in there alone, but going from the brightly lit hallway to the darkened room leaves me without most of my sight for a full minute or two.
When I'm able to refocus, I can make out the outline of a regular bed in the middle of the room, and that's it. There isn't a St. Andrew's cross or a whipping station. I don't see any implements of pain or giant cocks meant for my own ass. I think Kincaid and his crew may be a little more mature than they were when I was a member because there was a lot of shit we'd do just to get a rise out of each other, and we'd be down for almost anything on a dare.