Wicked Fall (2 page)

“I’m thinking lots of leather,” Bridger says in a low voice, which weirdly causes a shiver to run up my spine. Fear? Excitement? Maybe both.

Bridger really got into the BDSM scene while we were in college. I personally don’t like it, although I’ll play around with a riding crop. I don’t like doling out that type of pain, and I like my women to look me in the eye while they’re sucking my cock. I do, however, like to watch Bridger work a submissive hard before he fucks her—or him. Bridger doesn’t discriminate.

Before we start drooling over the plans, I pull that sheet off and set it on the ground. The final elements to our fantasy sex club are the private buildings. Ten log cabins intimately appointed and designed to fulfill any number of fantasies that someone could imagine. We’ll spare no expense in decking them out, because I can afford to. Besides, the types of clientele that will seek memberships are going to expect only the best.

We study the cabin design, which is fairly simple in comparison but no less thrilling to add into the business plan.

Turning my head to look at Bridger, I say with a grin, “And that, my friend, is The Wicked Horse on paper.”

“Fucking fantastic,” he says with a return grin.

Our dream is coming to life. This time next year, we’ll be deep in the business of fulfilling sexual fantasies for all kinds of people from sweetly seductive to downright depraved.

Want to have a romantic seduction by a stranger? I’ll make it happen.

Want to get fucked by three well-hung cowboys? I’ll make that happen too.

Want to do it all while being watched? Easy as fucking pie.

Almost any fantasy imaginable—except forced sex or bestiality—and I’ll make it come to life. I know enough people just like me to staff this place well. And while I won’t be handing out the fantasies, because after all… I am the proprietor and only have so much time available… it doesn’t mean I won’t indulge.

Call it a perk.

Why in the world would I ever want to open up a sex fantasy club, you might ask? Especially when I’m sitting on a massive fortune?

Well, let’s just say that I’m a lot like my brother. I have my own dreams and goals, and I was raised by parents that taught Tenn and me that we could accomplish anything we set our minds too. And while I love everything that my father created with JennCo, it isn’t my passion. It’s more of an obligation.

No, I don’t want to nibble at life. I want to take a big fucking bite, suck down its juiciness, and swallow it hard with a moan. And in my experience, the best way to do that is through sex. There is nothing more gratifying… nothing that feels as good. It’s intimate, carnal, and liberating. It’s the ultimate high.

Add in some kink.

Let people explore their fantasies.

Indulge in your nastiest desire.

Yeah, that’s the shit that turns the ultimate high into infinite euphoria.

And I’m going to give people the ability to achieve that.

Bridger whistles low as he looks at the beauty laying before us. “So we’re really going to do this?”

“We’re really going to do this,” I murmur.

I get a fucking hard-on just thinking about it.

Woolf

One year later…

The minute I open my office door, the sounds and smells assault me.

Luke Bryan’s
Country Girl
is blaring, and dozens of boots hitting the wooden floor in a line dance reverberate.

Drunken laughs and voices rise from those trying to talk above the loud music. I smell spilled beer and sawdust on the floor with a tinge of cheap cologne in the air. Ahhhh. It’s exactly as I imagined The Wicked Horse would be.

Pulling my office door shut behind me, I turn around and set the alarm panel in the wall beside it. Only Bridger and I know the password to get in. Walking up to the main bar, I lift the pass-through bridge and step past several bartenders trying to appease the clamoring crowd. I sidestep past my female bartenders, who are wearing tight black t-shirts with The Wicked Horse brand on the front and denim shorts that show the rounded curve of their ass just peeking out at the bottom. I’ve actually seen a lot more than just the hint of some of these girls’ asses. The male bartenders also wear tight black t-shirts and yes, most of them are hired for their bodies rather than their brains. This is because I know women appreciate ogling as much as men do, so I aim to please. Everyone behind the bar wears a pair of custom-made black cowboy boots with the signature neon-blue reflective spurs on the back. When they all get up on the bar to dance—and yes, I got that from
Coyote Ugly
—it makes quite the spectacle.

I walk up to Ted, my senior bartender, and hand him the stapled sheaf of documents in my hand. “Here’s the new price list from our beer distributor. Toss out the old one. You’ll see there’s a price drop once we order more than ten cases of any brand, so go ahead and make sure we order at least ten for every inventory restock.”

“But we don’t have the room here to hold that much beer,” he says as he takes the documents.

“I know,” I respond as I pull my Stetson off and sift my fingers through my hair briefly before putting it back on. “Use The Silo’s storage room for the excess.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Ted says, and I give him a nod before turning to leave. Ted is one of the few employees in the main nightclub area that knows about the fantasy sex club portion of The Wicked Horse. That’s because he’s one of my “fantasy makers”. In addition to pouring a mean drink, he has an eight-inch cock that the women just love. He’s the star of the fantasy I’ve entitled, “My husband’s penis is too small and I want to know what it feels like to be with a real man”.

I always have to withhold my eye roll when I get these requests because any man worth his fucking salt in the bedroom can make a woman come long and hard, regardless of how big his dick is. While I happen to be blessed with a long, thick cock that makes most women scream upon entry, I do some of my best work with my mouth.

My eyes stray out to the dance floor, which is packed with partiers. Most of the crowd leans young, mid-to-late twenties, and that’s more a by-product of tourism. It’s early summer and probably fifty percent of the people here tonight are either tourists or part-time residents that migrate here to accommodate the tourists like fishing guides, white-water rafting instructors, and the like. The other half are locals, although local in Wyoming means living within at least an hour’s drive to this place. This part of the ranch doesn’t sit far off the main highway that heads east out of Jackson, but it’s a good forty-minute drive from my house that sits in the middle of Double J property.

“That’s right,” I hear Angel’s sexy, husky voice come over the sound system. I hired our resident DJ over a year ago because of that voice. I swear it has the ability to make men come. “Step right up and get a front-row seat, fellas. Because our nightly wet t-shirt contest is getting ready to start. But let’s meet our contestants first.”

My eyes give a brief flick at the bar on the back wall of the club. Seven women are standing on top, all wearing tight, white t-shirts that I know from personal experience are super thin because I bought them. Nothing like a wet t-shirt contest to get people in the mood.

As I step back out from behind the bar, a pair of delicate, warm hands grab onto my hips from behind. I angle my head over my shoulder and my lips curve up.

Carlie Payton grins back up at me with full, red lips, long, golden-blonde hair, and a shirt cut so low I’m in danger of falling in and drowning in her cleavage. She steps around my side and comes to my front, keeping one hand on my hip and the other tugging playfully on my belt buckle. Her thumb grazes over the top of the engraved, pewter design, which is unique but not uncommonly so.

Round circle with another circle in the middle. Eight spokes. Seven compartments.

The Silo.

Where all your fantasies will come true.

All members of the sex club part of The Wicked Horse bear this design in some way. It may be a belt buckle, a piece of jewelry, or some of our more devoted members even have the brand tattooed on their bodies. It’s a way that members of the club can identify themselves to each other when socializing out here in the nightclub area. It makes for easier hookups if a naughty couple wants to venture back to The Silo or one of the private cabins. Carlie has on a pair of silver earrings with The Silo brand dangling from each ear and she’s a very active member, getting fucked or doing some sucking most nights. I first met her over at a sex club I used to visit over in Driggs, Idaho and well… she followed me over to the Wyoming side of the Tetons and has been here ever since. She’s a favorite of mine for sure.

“Hey, sugar,” she drawls, and then dips the tips of her fingers underneath the edge of my belt. “Want to play?”

Hmmmm. Let’s see. My work is done for the night, I haven’t been laid in four days because I’ve been busy as shit between my duties at JennCo and The Wicked Horse, and Carlie sucks cock like a Hoover vacuum cleaner. I start to get hard just thinking about it.

I vaguely hear Angel asking each woman to introduce themselves to the crowd, which is now pressing in on the back bar to get a gander of wet breasts and puckered nipples. My hand comes up to circle Carlie’s slender throat, and I press my thumb just under her chin. Her eyes go cloudy with lust because she’s into choking. That isn’t my cup of tea, but I know someone who can fulfill that fantasy for her.

I nod over her head at Bridger, who is leaning casually up against the far wall. He’s so tall I have no problem spotting him even with a crowded dance floor in between us. He’s only got about two inches on me but fuck… he still looks like a goddamn giant.

“Want Bridger to play with us?” I ask her, giving a slight squeeze to her neck.

She moans in response, but I can’t hear it over the music. Rather, I feel it rumble through her against my palm circling her throat. I take that as assent.

Bridger just seems to know he’s being talked about because his eyes slide over to mine. His gaze flicks briefly to Carlie standing in front of me, and his smile curves wickedly. I knew he’d be all in.

As Bridger pushes off the wall and starts to wind his way through the throng of dancers, I lean down to place my lips near Carlie’s ear. “Bridger had it last time. I’m getting your ass tonight.”

She fucking shudders over the thought. Carlie loves her some DP, but then again… so do I.

I’m wicked that way.

When Bridger reaches us, he walks right up behind Carlie and presses into her. I know my friend well enough to know that he’s already getting hard thinking about us taking her at the same time. I couldn’t begin to count the number of times since college we’ve done that with a woman and I can honestly say, it never gets old.

Carlie is much shorter so Bridger and I can stare eye to eye as we iron out the details.

“Silo?” he asks.

“Nah. Let’s just go to our office,” I say simply.

Because that’s closer and besides… a few weeks ago, Bridger and I tag teamed the new waitress, Stephanie, in there. Bridger just sat his naked ass on the edge of our desk, his long, powerful legs easily supporting himself. I did nothing more than place Stephanie in a straddle on his lap and stepped in behind. It was the perfect fucking angle.

No pun intended.

Bridger nods and grabs Carlie’s hand, pulling her from me and toward the short hall that leads to our office. Carlie, in turn, takes my hand and I start to follow the train back.

“And how about you, honey?” Angel’s smoky voice reverberates over the speakers, and I can just imagine her standing up on the bar with her fiery red hair that comes down to her ass, microphone pressed under the contestant’s mouth. I’ve often thought about fucking Angel, but she’s a dominatrix and I’m sorry… but I have to be the one in control. I don’t submit to anyone, so it’s never happened. I’ve sure enjoyed watching her play over at The Silo though.

Just as Bridger enters the hallway, the hair rises up on the back of my head when I hear the sweetest voice I’ve never been able to forget and that still intermittently haunts my dreams.

“Hi. My name’s Callie. I just turned twenty-nine and oh, gosh… I’m nervous as hell, but I’m drunk enough to overcome it. Let’s do this!”

I hear the resounding chorus of a hundred drunken men shout in agreement.

I drop Carlie’s hand and whirl around, my gaze lasering onto the woman standing next to Angel on the bar.

Tall and willowy with chocolate-brown hair that appears to be braided down her back. It used to be really long, but I can’t tell much about it right now. Even in the darkened atmosphere of the bar, I can still see the radiance of her light green eyes as she looks out over the crowd with her hands tucked nervously in the pockets of a tiny, denim skirt. I can’t see them, but I can imagine the dusting of freckles I know graces that perfectly shaped nose and her high cheekbones.

It’s been forever since I’ve seen her and I didn’t think it would be possible, but fuck… she’s even more gorgeous than I remembered.

I don’t even think. Instead, I start barreling toward Callie, cutting straight across the dance floor toward the back bar. It’s easy enough to make my way through the dancers, but I have to get a little rougher as I push my way past the thick wall of men all staring up expectantly.

And that exact minute, Callie nervously looks out over the crowd… her eyes passing over me and then slamming back in shock. Those full lips part in surprise, and my anger boils.

When I hit the edge of the bar, I hold my hand up, glaring at her… demanding she get down. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

I’m surprised when her hand comes out of her pocket and tentatively reaches toward me. But then she reconsiders, a hard glint in her eye. Instead, she reaches up and takes the bottom of the t-shirt in her hands, pulling it up in between her breasts, looping it into the collar, and then reaching underneath to pull it down, effectively creating a halter-like top. It plumps up her breasts and showcases a breathtakingly gorgeous view of her flat stomach and gently curved hips to where the denim of her skirt hangs dangerously low.