The Claiming of Sadie Graves (22 page)

He helps me into the car, and we head to a small eatery near the club. I’m a little nervous.
I never even go to clubs, much less a sex club. Right?
I really don’t know what to expect, so I try to keep an open mind, and I ask very few questions so I don’t look stupid.

Once seated, Peter orders a Bellini for me and a
Dewars neat for himself. We have three plates of hors d’oeuvres, and they’re delicious, but I can’t seem to concentrate on food.

Before long, it’s time to go. We hop back into the car and it drops u
s at the curb in front of
Latex
. There’s a long line, and I wait at the end of it while Peter steps to the front to discuss our arrival with the three bouncers. I hear them calling my name within seconds. “Sadie Graves! Miss Graves!” I step forward, and they all gesture toward me to step to the front of the line. People crane around to see if I’m a celebrity or someone they know
. Ooh. They might think I’m some kind of sex star
, I think.
Ugh
.
I would probably not want my dad to know I was here,
it suddenly occurs to me. Well, he won’t. It’s all good.

Right when we step inside, Jonathan Tierce comes to greet us. I recognize him from the party. He’s tall, and extremely handsome. I guess I was so overwhelmed with Lucas’ good looks that I failed to notice his, but he’s beautiful in a completely different way. He has black hair and ice blue eyes, and a five o’clock shadow that’s really sexy. He’s dressed in black jeans and a black satin blazer; his baby blue shirt is open at the collar. He’s in cowboy boots. I notice women tracking him with their
eyes when he steps to greet us, and I can understand why.

“Miss Graves” he says; his tone so courtly that I’m taken aback.
He has a clipped British accent, and it isn’t contrived. I must have not noticed his accent, either.
I was on autopilot
. “I’m honored that you’ve come here tonight. If you’d give me one moment, I’d like to take you on a tour of the facility. Can you wait here for me?” I nod, wide-eyed at the crush of people streaming into the building around me.

Peter leans over and whispers “Listen, if you two are going to talk shop, do you mind if I scout around? Maybe get another drink?”

“Not at all, Peter. I’ll catch up with you later?” He nods; the music and ambient noise make it hard to hear conversation. He disappears into the crowd, and I tuck myself against an exterior wall, waiting on Jonathan’s return. I look around. The place is large, but sectioned off in such a way that it almost seems intimate. Music is pulsing, but not booming. There must be a dance floor on this level. The clientele is mixed – every age seems represented, but the majority of people I see look slightly older than me.

I watch the ebb and flow of patrons, most dressed up in their finest for New Year’s Eve,
Coming through the front door. People-watching engrosses me, and the next thing I know Jonathan Tierce is beside me, his hand cupped at my lower back. “Miss Graves, won’t you follow me?” he whispers into my ear. I smile and go with him; in places the crowd is so thick that he holds my hand to keep me with him. He has strong, elegant fingers. We make our way past several waiting lines and finally make it to a back corridor, which I assume leads to his office. “My God!” he laughs. “Don’t get me wrong, I love that the club is this busy. But wrangling all these people is a trial.” I laugh, realizing he has a whole different set of problems than most business owners.

“Come, my office is here.”

He enters a door, and opens it for me. The room is a good size, and comfortably furnished. There are a few bookcases, mostly filled with awards and other memorabilia; not very many books.

His desk is large, and covered with papers and invoices. I step inside, and sit down in a chair facing it. He starts to go behind the desk, but thinks better of it and leans across the front instead, his flat stomach and muscular build obvious in fitted clothes. I’m suddenly aware that my face is right on level with his crotch, and I wonder if he planned it that way.

“Sadie…may I call you Sadie? Or shall I call you Miss Graves?” he asks, his manners intact.

“You may certainly call me Sadie. You wanted to see me, and I’m here. How can I help you?”

He smiles, and looks a little wry. “I know Lucas hates me, Sadie, and I’m sure he’s said nothing but unkind things about me and this operation, but…” I pause him.

“Now wait; that isn’t fair. I don’t know what happened between you and Lucas, and its none of my business. I’m here to talk about staff uniforms, if that’s what you want. But I’m not here to talk about Lucas, and we aren’t a couple. So get to it, Jonathan, or I’ll be on my way. I’m not a big night-clubber.” He tries to hide his surprise. “Lucas told he himself that he was in a relationship with you.”

“I understand that. But what he neglected to tell
me
is that he is also in a relationship with Violet Emery. I’m not into sharing.” I sigh.

He looks at me thoughtfully. “Can I ask you a question, Sadie?
Without offending you?”

“You can try” I smile wistfully.

“Have you been with many men?”

Ah.
The loaded question
. “I’m sure it’s obvious. I haven’t. In fact, I’ve only been with Lucas.”

His eyes widen slightly. “I see.”
He takes a deep breath.

“Okay, let’
s stick to business here” he says, briskly changing the subject. “I want latex uniforms for all my female staffers. They have to be covered enough to do their jobs without being exposed – bending, lifting, getting things that require stretching. But they need to look sexy. The only color I’m interested in is black, and they need one for every day of the week that we’re open. That means five days; five outfits. There are fifty-two women who work here, bartending, serving cocktails and waitressing. That means I need two hundred and sixty uniforms, cut to fit. I’d also like latex bow ties for the male employees. There are twenty-six of them. They need at least three apiece, so that’s seventy-eight ties. I’d like you to walk around with me to see what other suggestions you might make on dress, if you’re willing.”

“All right” I say, standing up. He pauses, just for a second.

“Sadie, you’re going to see some things in the lower level that might disturb you. And you might get incredibly turned on. I don’t want to minimize what you might see. I sensed that you were inexperienced, and
in this place
that quality is like blood in shark-infested water. Hell, even I want to pull your skirt up right now and bury my face between your legs.”
I color immediately.

“But you won’t” I say, levelly.

“Not unless you change your mind. But if you do, I’m bringing you back in here, and I’m going to slide you back onto my desk and eat your pussy until you beg me to fuck you.” 
My belly does a high, hard cartwheel.
He reaches out, and touches the bow at my throat, his eyes never leaving mine. “Lucas Sutton isn’t very smart, is he?” He looks thoughtful, and releases my ribbon.

I don’t say anything,
and I try to control the low level of sexual excitement I feel toward Jonathan.
This guy is animal. Whew.

Sadie, you’re just lonely.
Deep breath, sister.

He opens the door, waiting for me to follow him into the club. And so, I do.

“Locked Out of Heaven”

Bruno Mars,
Unorthodox Jukebox

Latex
is located in an old bank building, and has something different on each of its six floors. The uppermost floors are private, for VIPs and other regular patrons. The next three floors are limited to straight drinking and dancing. The basement floor originally housed twelve bank vaults, which are used now for live sex shows. They feature both amateur and professional sex performers, in straight, BDSM and gay scenes. There’s a steep cover charge to access the lowest level, not to mention a required metal detector and full bag and body search of patrons.  Jonathan isn’t taking any chances on the safety of his performers, and the bouncers are armed and dangerous.

We take an elevator to the lowest level and he checks in with the bouncers to let them know he’s bringing me along. They nod curtly to me as we walk past. Jonathan and I walk slowly past the first vignette. The room is small, and its audience is full. There’s a wooden stage at the end of the narrow room
. The lighting is perfectly balanced so you can see every body part, yet it’s flattering to the performers.  There’s a naked man tied to an inverted triangle, and he’s gagged. His eyes are wide open. I realize he’s moving his sex in and out of a rubber vaginal replica, in time. There’s a whirring sound emanating from it
. Ah, vibration. I’m repulsed but unable to look away.
Over him, holding a long, thin cane in one hand is a redheaded dominatrix. She’s wearing a teal-colored corset and matching thigh-high boots, her breasts exposed. She doesn’t have anything on from the waist down.

She’s holding a remote control in her other hand. Turning the vibration on and off, I guess.

My breath catches in my throat. I recognize her, of course.

It’s Sidney Poole.

Since she’s otherwise engaged, I know Sidney can’t – or won’t - see me. I press Jonathan’s hand to let him know I’m ready to move along. There’s a crack of cane against flesh as we walk out, and I’m glad I’m not looking. The remaining vignettes are full of naked people in various positions, having sex.
Jesus
. I feel flushed, guilty for seeing what’s in front of me. And I’m wet. Really wet. I can see why people are down here. No one seems like they’re bothering anyone else, though the clientele is mostly men. Every lone man around me has a slightly dazed look, like he needs sexual release, and soon. Couples aren’t sure whether to watch what’s happening in front of them, or to touch their companion all over.

Jonathan leans over to me. “Do you feel it, now?
The excitement?” He moves me in the crowd until I’m in front of him, and then he reaches around and slips his hand into my shirt. He pulls my demi bra cup down and fills his hand with my breast. He squeezes one long nipple between his thumb and index finger. My sex clenches,
but he’s the wrong man
. There’s only
one
man I want to touch me there. The thought saddens me. The man I want is with someone else tonight, and he’ll be kissing her at midnight.
I’m in a sex dungeon on the Lower East Side, getting felt up by this moron.

Damnation.

I move expertly away from him and close my shirt. I turn around, look at him seriously in the eyes, and shake my head.
No.

He leans forward. “I had to try, Sadie. You’re special.
Lovely, really. I apologize; it’s easy to get out of line down here.” I nod, and tilt my head toward the elevator indicating that I’m ready to go. He acknowledges me and we start moving.

We’re almost past the last vignette when I look up.
This live sex stuff is like a train wreck; it’s like I can’t
not
look. Why is that? I think about Lucas losing Sidney Poole, to
this lifestyle
.
What a shitty trade. A life of love and intimacy, for…nothing.

The last vault has a black contraption in it, made out of ropes or webbing. There’s a woman tangled up in it. It’s holding her up, though, and that’s a good thing, because her sex partner is fucking her hard, and she’s gasping out little cries of pleasure mixed with something
close to anxiety. The room is full to bursting with onlookers. The man’s thick penis is sliding in and out of her with a smacking sound; his balls are slapping her rhythmically. He’s built, and he’s grunting with satisfaction. He pauses to flip her over, and she’s facedown, his cock banging into her sex, her ass jiggling with each thrust. He reaches around her rib cage to pinch her nipples, and whispers to her, loud enough for everyone to hear, “
You like that, don’t you baby?
Tell me that feels good. I want you to say it
.” She groans, between gasps. When she doesn’t speak right away, he rams her with his cock faster and faster.

My brain makes the connection before my
conscious mind does.

I start to run, out of the vault space and toward the elevator. 
No wait, there are stairs.

Jonathan can’t keep up with me. No one can.

It’s him.

It’s Dusty Kennon.

“Last Request”

Paolo Nutini,
These Streets

I spill out onto the sidewalk, and my mind starts racing.

I still have my purse clutched in my hands, and inside of it is my cell phone. I pull it out and call Peter, but his number goes straight to voicemail.
Figures.

I’ve left my coat inside, and it’s freezing. I’m suddenly aware that I didn't
have a panic attack, and I just saw my abuser. I’m oddly pleased. And I thank my stars that he didn’t see me. I have to process this. I’m not sure what it means, but it all means something.