Helen didn’t squeal, but she did grab Zoey’s arm and give it an eager little tug, which had basically the same effect. “That’s good?” Zoey asked.
“The private rooms are all equipped with—god, Zoey, every toy you can imagine. There’s stuff to clean them out there, too, and condoms, and lube, and the fact that he’s getting one now, didn’t have one set up already—he’s not assuming anything—”
“You’re not upset about me disappearing?”
Helen snorted. “Love, I brought you here so you could stop talking about getting a spanking, and actually get one. You have fun.” Her eyes skated over the patrons. “I know some people. I’m sure I won’t lack for a good time.” She caught Zoey up in a big hug, and Zoey melted for just a moment. “If you need me, and I’m not out here, tell Chris. He’ll take care of you, or find me, whichever makes more sense.”
“Chris?”
“The bartender.”
“Okay, sure,” Zoey said. And then the man was back. Helen gave Zoey’s hand one more squeeze, and then Zoey threaded her hand through the man’s outstretched arm and let him lead her through the tables towards a dark hallway on the far wall of the club.
It was felt like prom, like being the queen of everything. She felt envying eyes glaze over her, excited for her and jealous of her, as he led her back. She kept her spine straight and her eyes forward, taking in the little details as they walked.
The man led her down a hallway with walls painted a deep royal blue, and into a room appointed in lush black velvet. There was a bed, covers turned down, a rack of assorted toys, displayed almost like in a toy shop—whips, flogs, dildos, vibrators—and restraints. Her heart started to slam around in her chest like a frightened rat in a cage. The man shut the door behind her, and she turned to him. Her only thought was to fling herself at him, push herself into his arms before she could panic and frighten herself into running away.
Before she could complete the motion, though, he slipped into the room. Across from the bed there was a small table, two chairs, and beside that, a mini fridge. He opened it, took out two bottles of water, and set them down on the table. “Care to sit down with me?”
“Yes,” she said. The gin had gone to her head—and, worse, to her stomach—and she thought water sounded like a good idea. Something to settle her down, to calm her. She sat across from him, remembered to keep her knees together—and then didn’t worry about him. Let him see the flimsy excuse for panties that Helen had insisted would go perfectly under this skirt. It didn’t sound like a bad idea.
She did kick off the wedge heels with a happy sigh. She hated heels, no matter how good they made her calves look. She always felt like a piece of meat in them.
“This is your first time at Chez Vous?” He was polite enough to ask it like a question, but Zoey strongly suspected that her first-timer status might as well have been tattooed on her face.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you mind me asking what brings you here?”
She sighed. “I’ve tried every other way there is to meet men with no luck. My friend said she could get me an invitation, and I thought, why not.” She laughed, but he didn’t. Typical. “Sorry, I’m being flip.”
He gave a shrug, which did interesting things to his muscles underneath the shirt. Zoey was fairly sure that if—when—she got the fabric off his shoulders, she wouldn’t find a guy underneath who was cut like a bodybuilder, but she also was fairly sure his build would be strong, athletic, lickable. “It’s a perfectly legitimate reason. For all that Marie likes to talk about anonymity, there are lots of people who’ve met here, enjoyed themselves, and eventually gone on to be very happy couples.”
“But not you,” she said, reading between the lines of his tone and what she could see of his expression.
He spread his hands. “I’ve yet to find a single woman who is everything I want. I’m sorry to be that blunt about it—”
“—it’s perfectly legitimate,” Zoey said, echoing his tone. “I don’t generally do poly myself, but I don’t have any problem with casual. I’ve been—I don’t know, on the market for a while, and if nothing else, I want to clear out the cobwebs.” She laughed at herself. “As they say. Um.”
He was grinning, and she had the sense that she’d satisfied some criteria he’d had in mind. “Fair enough. And what is it you’re looking for?”
Sex? Probably not the response he’s looking for. “You mean in terms of—” she gestured at the toy rack. He nodded. She could feel her cheeks heating up, and she cursed her cheeks, and their traitorous determination to tell the world every time she was even a little bit embarrassed. Or aroused. Or anything. “I’m kind of a novice with all of that. But, uh, a very interested novice.”
His eyebrows went up again, and his grin widened. “Excellent. And would you like penetration to be on or off the table tonight?”
Her pussy clenched, and she let out a little gasp. If his eyebrows went any higher, she was pretty sure she’d have to call the fire department to retrieve them from his closely cropped black hair. “On,” she said. Her voice was breathy and faint, and she cursed it, but he was moving now, standing and reaching out a hand to her. His fingers closed over hers, tugging at her, and cursing was the last thing in her mind.
He guided her arm up around his neck, than ran his fingers down the underside of her arm. He used just enough pressure that it didn’t tickle, but it did make her shiver. She let her head loll back, and he took that as invitation, pressing a series of kisses all along the curve of her neck. One arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her tight to him, and the other stroked up and down her side. Between the shirt and the corset, she could only feel the pressure of his fingers, nothing more.
His tongue and his teeth dipped lower, into the cleavage the corset created. He nipped at the mounded flesh of her breasts, and she let out a little hiss as her body clenched again. “Good so far?” he asked, his voice shockingly analytical given the heavy weight of his cock hardening against her hip. “Not too much?”
“Perfect,” she whispered.
“If I hurt you, or if you need me to stop or slow down—vegetables. Does that work for you?”
“What?”
He chuckled. “Can you think of any reason you’d start talking about vegetables during sex?”
“Decidedly not.”
“So, if you start yelling about tomatoes, I know that you’re not playing along with something I’m doing, you’re signaling me to stop.” His teeth came to her breasts again, and she dug her fingernails into his neck, hearing his answering hiss.
“Tomatoes are a fruit,” she said, as his tongue slipped inside of the fabric, brushing over her areola.