Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Mouth more spitless than a pile of sawdust, Ray followed Bob into the BDSM club. Sure, maybe her heart was tap dancing against her ribs, but she was doing far better than last week when she hadn’t ventured two steps into the room.
Tonight, she had an escort.
Over the past week, she’d jumped through all the hoops. Her application and preferences list. A background check to rule out being a sexual offender. She’d even done the optional STI testing.
Since she had to show up for the orientation, she’d hitched up her work trailer and dropped off the first project for the Elfame room—the pentagram.
It’d been disappointing Master Drake hadn’t been the one to take the delivery.
Oh well.
Now here she was, ready to be a volunteer and make friends. Bob had assured her she didn’t have to participate in any scene stuff. She’d watch and get comfortable, and after another three or four visits, she could try playing.
If she liked it here.
Her membership was a heavily discounted trial one, so no real risk. Although she did need to “invest” in some new clothes.
She glanced down at the outfit she’d pulled together for tonight.
The white, button-down shirt came from Tomo’s closet.
Now wasn’t she glad she’d insisted George’s sons keep their rooms for when they visited?
Leather straps to look like a waist and chest harness had been easy to craft since some of her woodworking projects had leather surfaces.
Sexy fishnet stockings with an elastic thigh top.
She matched the red bra and thong with red ballet flats.
It all worked—and hadn’t cut into her budget.
Shaving down below had been disconcerting. Because, this time, she kept thinking of Master Drake’s hands.
No, Ray. He was the owner of Chains, after all.
Bob led her across the room, past the busy dance floor. On the stage on the other side, a Top was demonstrating electro-play.
Now there was something truly scary. Yet sooo intriguing.
“We’ll start you off serving drinks at the bar,” Bob said over his shoulder.
She frowned. “I didn’t think BDSM clubs allowed alcohol.”
“Most don’t. Consent, safe play, and drinking don’t mix.
” He sighed. “However, many people like a glass of wine or beer when socializing. On Fridays, which is basically a walk-in membership, no alcohol is served, only soft drinks. Saturdays are exclusive for the gold members, who really are members and have passed the orientation. Saturdays, it’s BYOB—and any alcohol has to be fetched from the bar in person so the bartender can stamp their hand to keep them out of the dungeon.
And security will toss out anyone caught sharing drinks.
Drake is inflexible about no intoxicants before playing. ”
Bob waved her behind the bar and rather than abandoning her to strangers—face it, that’s what it would have felt like—he joined her and continued his instructions.
“Sodas in this fridge. Juice packs and bottled water in this one. Ice and glasses are over there.” Bob pointed to the different refrigerators under the counter on the back wall.
“Got it.” Ray ran a hand over the lovely bar top. The black walnut was a beautiful deep chocolate color with intricate grain patterns. Just lovely.
And oops, Bob was still talking.
“If they want alcohol, send them to the other end of the bar. Claudia’s handling that side. She knows who owns which bottles—and will mix a drink when needed and mark their hands.”
Ray glanced over at the older woman. Petite and curvy, she was chatting with someone while filling a glass. “Seems straightforward enough. I can handle dispensing soft drinks.”
“I think you’ll enjoy it, and I’ll stay with you for a while. Your shift lasts until eleven when the next pair of volunteers takes over.”
“A couple of hours doesn’t seem too tough.”
In a long jean skirt and fringed denim crop-top, Tess slid onto a barstool. Her mid-back length hair was strawberry-blonde, several shades lighter than Ray’s auburn color. “The hours are short since Bob wants his volunteers to have time to play.”
Bob laughed. “Playing is the point, right? Where’s your Master, and how’re the woolies?”
“The sheep are good. My man will be over shortly.” She waved at the alcohol refrigerator. “Can my Sir and I have a couple of beers, please? We’ve already had our fun.”
Ray looked her over.
Hair damp at the temples, lips slightly swollen and red. And she’d taken a seat on the stool gingerly, as if her butt was sore. Fun, huh?
“Coming up now.” Bob headed for the spirits fridge.
“Love your outfit, Ray. And how are you doing?” Tess’ brown eyes were warm.
They weren’t friends yet, not really, but the concern was real—and heartening. “Pretty well, actually. It helps knowing some of you are around.”
“Good. Yell if you ever need help or backup.” Tess reached over and patted her hand. “There are dungeon monitors downstairs. Up here, we have a couple of bouncer types—one on the stairs and another free-floating.” She pointed them out.
Bouncers and monitors. “That’s more policing than I’d anticipated.”
“Drake has a thing about submissives—anyone actually—feeling safe. He’ll step right in if he sees someone getting pressured.”
How…satisfying. Reassuring. “Good to know. Thanks, Tess. Actually, I did see him in action when I was sitting with Hope and Mac.” He’d summoned an escort for a woman and scolded a younger Dom—or so it appeared.
Bob interrupted their conversation when he set a beer and a mug in front of Tess. “Hand, please.” When she put her hand on the bar, palm down, he swiped a purple magic marker across the back.
Ray noticed he hadn’t given Tess the second beer. He’d obviously been serious about people having to get marked up if they were drinking.
“Purple? Seriously?” Tess scowled at her hand. “I hate purple.”
“Me too,” Ray muttered. “Although lavender is worse.”
Tess shuddered then grinned. “Redheads have to stick together, yep. I do love the turquoise tips on your hair though.”
A couple of young women stepped up to the bar.
“Time to get to work. Excuse me, Tess.”
“Have fun.”
Ray served the women, chatting with them as they checked out the various singles on the dance floor.
Next to arrive was a group of four gay males. One broke away to get a drink from Claudia while Ray served juices to the other three. They also gave her a hearty welcome.
The club must be small enough everyone knew each other, at least by sight. It felt very friendly—and so much nicer than her Silver membership night visit.
When a burly, gray-haired man showed up, Tess waved Ray closer. “Ray, this is my Sir, Zachary, but our girls have been calling him Papa Bear for so long that even our friends now call him Bear.”
Ray laughed. “Bear it is then.”
“Nice to meet you, Ray.” Bear collected his beer from Bob along with a long purple mark on the back of his hand.
“All right then.” Bob smiled at Ray. “I think you’re good to handle the bar. I’ll be nearby.” With a wave, he walked out from behind the bar and joined Tess and Bear at a table.
For the next couple of hours, Ray met people, handed out drinks, chatted when there was time. And actually had fun.
The bar stayed nicely busy, enough she’d made a dent in the drink glasses shelved on the back wall in place of expensive bottles.
In the center of the wall was a vivid, hand-painted sign with the words: SAFE, SANE, and CONSENSUAL, denoting the club’s slogan. She loved it.
“Hey, it’s the pretty redhead from the coffee shop.” Wearing a black sleeveless top, black jeans, and a thick belt with a flogger attached, a blond man approached the bar.
Oh, great—it was the over-muscled jerk who’d outed her at the coffee shop when she was there with Marisol. She barely kept from wrinkling her nose.
His gaze went immediately to her half-open shirt that gave glimpses of her red bra.
Ray gave him a polite but cold smile. He’d called her Drake’s plaything. Definitely a jerk. “Good evening. What can I get you?”
“Ooooh, I can think of lots of things.” His leer made her want to retch.
Note to self: don’t leave openings for idiots. “Let me rephrase—would you like a soft drink?”
“Spoilsport.” He turned toward a group of men. “Blaize, look who’s here.”
The older man who’d spoken to her and Marisol was in a finely tailored black suit. And there was the red-headed one in a casual black T-shirt and jeans. Another man was dressed more like a biker.
“If you’re behind the bar, you must be a member now.” Blaize’s smile was as charming as at the coffee shop. He did seem really nice. “Welcome.”
“Thank you.” All of the men were in black. “I guess you’re all Doms or Tops or something?”
“That’s right.” The ginger leaned on the bar with an elbow, his blue eyes keen. “And you?”
“Not a Dom, no.” She smiled politely. “What can I get you to drink?”
They all wanted coffee, which Bob hadn’t mentioned. Turning, she spotted the pot and cups. A small tray held creamers and sugars. Good enough.
She served them, one by one.
Taking his coffee, Blaize lifted his eyebrows. “You didn’t answer Jago. Are you submissive or a Top or Domme? Single or attached to someone?”
Irritation scratched at her nerves—which was silly. She wanted to make friends and maybe, eventually, actually play. It made sense people wanted to know what side of the—how had the orientation instructor called it?—what side of the slash she played on.
Aside from the big blond who suffered from foot-in-mouth disease, the men seemed nice enough. Blaize had a smooth manner, even if he was pressing for answers.
Woman up, Ray. “I’m single…but only on a recon mission tonight.”
“Can’t discover what you like if you don’t put a foot in the water,” the blond said. “I’m Kiefer. Want to do a light scene?”
Her mouth dried, and she had to force herself not to step back.