Mercy (Salacious Players Club, #4)(18)

Late. Ten?





Surely, I can sneak out of the party by then. Fuck, am I really considering this? Going to his fucking sex club?

Yes, but it’s not in support of him or the club. It’s just to meet this lady and hopefully get laid. Like an ironic form of rebellion.

I’m in. Friday at ten.

Until then I want you to think about what you want.

Watch some porn to get some ideas.

Text me when you think of something.





For a guy who was so sure this was all fake, you sure do seem eager now.





I smile.

Yeah, I guess I am eager.

I’d like to see what the fuss is all about.





Okay, don’t chicken out.





Trust me. I won’t.





Rule #8: Watch porn…for research.





Maggie





I’ve lost my damn mind. That’s the only explanation for this. Why on earth would I agree to meet a twenty-two-year-old at the club, with plans to have sex and dominate him?

Certifiable. This is insane.

And yet…he’s messaged me every day since the first one. We agreed not to use real names, and we won’t share photos. He says the mystery makes it easier, and I agree. So tomorrow night when we meet, he will have on a black mask with an ‘s’ marked in black light paint for sub. I will have a ‘D’ on mine for Domme. It was my idea, and I admit, it’s not very creative, but I’m not going for creative right now. I’m going for clarity and assurance. I need to be sure I’m walking into a private room with the right guy.

It works out perfectly that we’re doing this on Friday because all of the owners will be at Emerson and Charlie’s engagement party. We have this masquerade event every week, and the floor managers are ready to handle everything, so no one will suspect that I’m me. I should be able to blend in easily with the crowd.

I can walk in as Maggie, the owner, slip on my mask, and find my mystery man.

God, this is crazy.

But I do think about what he said, about telling him what I want. It would be easy to play it off as shy or ignore the question, but this is literally about me being in control, so I guess I better figure it out.

I also listened to what he suggested, which is why I’m lying on my couch, in my partially unpacked house at three p.m. on a Thursday, scrolling through a porn site. I see porn as a necessary evil. I don’t objectively enjoy it or like it, but for a woman with little time on her hands, I do appreciate how effectively it gets the job done.

I don’t have time to waste, trying to use my stunted imagination to get off.

But I’m not scrolling the site today for that reason. No, today is strictly for research. Because if I’m going to do this, and go in there ready to wield control, then I better be prepared. My stomach clenches at the thought of being in the middle of a scene and completely at a loss for the words or commands. I can only imagine how mortifying and awkward that would be for him.

Unfortunately, I’m not finding anything on the site that gets me excited. I tried looking up Domme videos, but it just gave me more anxiety. These women are all confident and sure of what they want.

All I know is that I want to be in control—I just don’t know what turns me on.

Finally, I land on a video that is more artful than vulgar, a welcome sight for my overstimulated brain. There is no black leather or whips. No in-your-face genitalia. Just a woman, sitting on a desk, with a man kneeling between her legs. He’s not touching her, but she’s gently patting his head, running her fingers through his long hair. Something about it is intriguing—a man willingly giving over control.

I watch the video as she guides him around the room like a pet, bends him over the desk, spanks him with a paddle while reciting forms of degradation in a tone that sounds more fit for praise.

Then to my utter surprise, she pulls a strap-on out of the desk and begins clasping it into place. My eyes widen as I swipe the app closed.

No. No way.

Quickly, I stand up from the couch, leaving my phone on the cushion as I go to my wine cooler to pour a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio and do my best to ignore the tingling arousal between my thighs. That can’t possibly be what turns me on.

Watching porn is a lot like opening a bottle of wine. Once you’ve popped that cork, you have to just see it through and drink the whole thing. Can’t let it go to waste. Or at least that’s the justification in my mind when I return to my couch.

I’m already aroused…so I might as well finish the job.

Lying back down on the pillows, I open the site again and the video picks up where it left off. He’s still bent over the desk when she starts prepping and probing him with lube, and I have to keep looking away.

What is wrong with me? In the club, I’ve watched so much sex, of various types, so why is this so hard to absorb? Pegging is nothing new to me, but suddenly I’m putting myself in her shoes—or heels, I guess—and it’s hitting me differently. As if my brain is telling me I should feel bad for how turned on I am right now.

When the woman slides into him from behind, I bite my bottom lip, without tearing my eyes away. She looks amazing as she thrusts her hips against his backside. So powerful and in control, and judging by the euphoric expression on his face and the way he’s moaning, I’d say he seems to be loving it too.