Desire And Danger 18+

Eight

It's seven-thirty in the evening as I settle my black purse on the bar counter. Black, glossy heels prop on the stool spindle graciously before I hoist my curvy bottom onto the soft cushion embedded over the wooden frame. I sit on it comfortably, exhaling a strained breath with my heart beating so erratically after the five, tense minutes of waiting.

I order a gin and tonic with an instruction to have it flat, intending to keep it sober for as long as I'm here, and thankfully, Sheer and Latex is not an average club where sweat, alcohol, music, and sex commingle vicariously. Alas, it's a VIP lounge that I barely got in thanks to an old man named Victor Bartholy who took pity on me at the door by saying we're together.

He was a gentleman, honestly. He only asked if I was looking for someone, not sure how he came to such a conclusion, and my answer was as stealthy as it could be. I told him I'm here to meet Madam Francesca for a job interview and whatnot. Of course, he knows the old hag, and it rang to me that he's a regular here, and maybe a VIP.

However, he probably came here for some serious business matter. He's an attorney, said the business card he gave me if I ever needed help in my tonight's endeavor. No pun intended, but he came out like a sugar daddy when he told me that, but the fact that he didn't even offer to buy me a drink or ask for my number could only mean he was genuinely concerned.

A tall glass slides my way; ice cubes, lime slices, and sparkling water are filled inside it. I finger the rim and draw the glass toward my blood-red lips right away. The lean, tall bartender in a white dressed shirt, tucked nearly under the black apron dangling over his thighs, smiles indulgently before he regards a gun-chewing chick handing over a tray of empty cocktail glasses.

Just like me, she's also wearing a blonde wig, hers longer than mine.

"Big Jack and two glasses." She slaps her tired palms over the polished wooden surface of the bar countertop, spreading her long fingers painted in blue... or violet that she begins to tap violently against the wood.

The walls in this lounge are of dark bricks, with a very faint lightning system that has a blurring effect synching with the soft music in the background. The rest of the club, which is another floor below this, is just a typical venue with cramped booths, a herd of youngsters grinding against each other, and lots of music loud enough to block one's inner thoughts.

And just like the BDSM club in Adrian's hotel in Las Vegas, this one is also a club within the club and it requires membership or an invite. The fact I'm here all alone, makes me look like a golddigger sub on the hunt, or just anyone with an incredibly beautiful relationship with money and sex given the very short, figure-hugging dress I'm wearing with fishnet stockings, and a diamond-studded necklace.

"I swear I hate doing rounds down here! It was supposed to be me in the cabin and not that Janelle bitch who plays like she's the most polite of them all!" the blonde goes on, drawing her thinly covered little boobs toward the counter until they're jerked up against the wooden edge.

I sip my drink, listening subtly with the pretense that I'm not.

The bartender's smile lingers—although very faintly as if it's as far as he can go—as he takes a stride rightward toward the long shelf of expensive liquors lined up exorbitantly. And I realize that if there are cabins, just as the blonde mentioned, maybe that's where members with special requirements will be taken to. It's exactly where Victor headed, somewhere through a set of stairs a few feet to my right.

And if Adrian is here, then he must be in one of those cabins, and for that, I need to know where Francesca is. That old hag is the key. Sadly, in here I see no one getting whipped, or wearing a latex bra with an ass bared to be slapped by the horny Dom. I see no spanking benches either, and not a single person is chained or bonded somewhere.