Everything in this place has been designed to tease and titillate the senses—from the dim lighting to the three girls in the lobby who look like they’ve been spray-painted gold.

The main hall is dark, protecting the anonymity of the rich and powerful men who sit in the audience. In contrast, the stage is flooded with light, exposing the nakedness and vulnerability of the performers.

I say “performers,” but most of the men on stage are paying customers of The Succubus, and even some of the girls are here by choice.

After all, both dominant men—Doms—and submissive women—subs—are welcome here, as long as they know the right people and pass the rigorous background checks conducted by the club. Oh, and pay the annual membership fee every year, without fail.

I once talked to a guy in The Succubus who told me it had taken him seven years to get approved for a membership the second time. The club had made him jump through hoops to get in again, saying they only had a certain number of spots available and they wanted to make sure those spots went to their most loyal customers.

I hate that the club uses such a cheap tactic to pressure people to keep their memberships active, but I’ll have to admit it works.

Like a sucker, I keep paying the exorbitant fee, even though I haven’t even been here in over a year. The annual membership costs the same as a top-of-the-line Lamborghini, but I can’t bring myself to cancel it.

Maybe it’s stupid to keep paying the fee, but what am I going to do with another car anyway?

This place, though. It keeps luring me back in, whispering false promises that never come true. Every time I leave this place, I feel empty and hopeless.

Still, I keep coming back, hoping to find . . . I don’t know, something. I don’t know what it is I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it.

I take my seat in a quiet corner and glance at the stage. Three girls are locked up in tiny cages while a Dom slides his dick into the one in the middle, making her gasp and whimper. Meanwhile, he pushes his fingers into the other two girls, starting a cacophony of female moans.

My cock stirs in my pants as I sit in my plush chair.

Here we go again. I’m going to go home with blue balls tonight. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself.

The show unfolding on stage is good. It’s great. I don’t have any complaints about it. My dick obviously approves of it.

The problem is, I don’t know what to do with the lust that’s plaguing me right now.

It would be easy enough to find a girl who’ll slip away into one of the private rooms with me. I’ve gotten several offers, both from fellow members of The Succubus and from the waitresses, even though I haven’t even been actively looking.

There’s only one obstacle preventing me from doing just that. I can’t find anyone I want to take into a private room.

It’s not that the girls are unattractive. The Succubus isn’t only strict with its membership criteria, but also its employment criteria. At the very least, every girl who works here is conventionally attractive.

It’s not about what the girls are doing either. I find it hot that they’re often restrained with cuffs and chains, and I like the fact that they’re obedient and eager to please.

I’ll admit the ropes that bind their bodies light up my imagination with possibilities, but they’re not what I’m looking for.

Let’s face it, though, I’m probably never going to find what I’m looking for.

I used to come here every week for years until it started to interfere with my work. If I was ever going to find it, I would’ve found it then.

A loud crashing sound jars me back to reality.

I turn toward the aisle by my seat and catch sight of a girl crouching on the ground, picking up glasses and pieces of food that she’s dropped from her tray.

“Sorry,” she says in a loud whisper as she looks around at everyone who’s glaring at her because of the noise she made. “I’m so sorry.”

Then, our eyes lock.

It’s ridiculous, but I feel like time has stopped. It’s like in the movies when everything’s in slow motion and Ella James starts singing “At Last.”

She’s beautiful. The dark eyebrows over her big, expressive eyes are pulled together with worry. Her teeth stab her bottom lip, making me want to claim that mouth for myself.

She’s crouching by my chair as she picks up shards of glass with her delicate hands. She’s so close I can almost just grab her and ravish her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, restarting the clock with her voice.

I’ve never had that slow-motion moment in my life before, and this clumsy girl somehow does it for me? What just happened?

“Who are you?” I blurt out.

“Huh?” she asks, tilting her head in the most adorable way.

I clear my throat. There’s no need to get nervous here.

This girl obviously works at The Succubus, which means she knows the rules. She’s broken a few of them already in less than one minute.

“Haven’t you been told how you’re supposed to address me?” I ask.

She freezes, realizing her mistake. “I’m sorry, Sir. I’m so sorry.” Looking around, she adds, “Would you mind not telling anybody about this? I could fix this before it becomes a problem . . . Sir.”

She must be new here. But even new employees must know they’re supposed to blend into the background. That definitely means they shouldn’t be telling customers what to do, especially when it involves hiding things from her employer.

This girl’s been bad.

And I’m itching to punish her.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Katie,” she answers.

I smile to myself in the dark. She really is new.

With a mask over the top half of my face, Katie won’t be able to recognize me if we run into each other outside the club. Sure, she may know my name, but she won’t know we’ve met.

If I see her in the real world, though, I’ll know exactly who she is. Unlike the other girls, she hasn’t even bothered coming up with a fake name.

This is either her very first night or she doesn’t talk much with the other girls—who usually have names like Candy, Cherry, or Chastity.

Katie is a nice name. A perfectly good name. But it’s not sensual or suggestive. It’s not the kind of name most people would pick as a sexy alias.

“Katie, huh?” I ask, still smiling.

“Um, yes.” She quickly adds, “I mean, yes, Sir. Can I please continue cleaning, Sir?”

“No, leave it alone,” I tell her.

She stares at me, apprehension in her eyes. Jesus, those eyes. I can see everything she’s feeling, every single emotion.

She wants to say something, but she doesn’t know how I’m going to react, so she’s decided to wait and see, instead of digging a deeper hole for herself. Smart girl.

I get up from my chair, and her gaze follows me.

Good. I’ve got her attention.

“Come with me.” I hold out my hand.

“Uh . . .” Katie hesitates. “Can I clean this up first before we go, Sir?”

“Are you saying you want me to help you hide your little accident from the club?” I cock an eyebrow.

“No,” Katie answers quickly. “I mean, no, Sir.”

She pauses, seemingly considering her options. When she meets my gaze, she’s made a decision, although I can tell she’s not completely comfortable with it.

She puts her hand on mine, and her soft skin sends a jolt of electricity through my system.

I stare at her, dumbfounded. Who’s this girl, and what did she just do to me?