Although there was one splurge I made, but I’ve definitely gotten my money’s worth out of it—the five-figure membership fee for Club Alias. An extravagant amount to most people, but priceless when it comes to my mental health. I’d pay it over and over again for the peace it brings me, but luckily, it’s a lifetime membership unless one breaks the rules and gets banned.
I, for one, am anything but a rulebreaker, so I won’t ever have to worry about getting booted from my happy place. The rules of Club Alias are like Fight Club—you don’t talk about it. You don’t tell anyone about it unless you trust them to join, at which time you have to be their sponsor. You’re responsible for them, and if they break the rules, it’s on you. No one wants to get kicked out, so everyone is super cautious about the people they’re willing to vouch for.
I personally learned about Club Alias through my therapist, Dr. Walker. After years of being his patient, he had me sign a non-disclosure agreement before telling me all about the club, where he thought I’d benefit more from than on any type of medication. And he was right. As long as I get my weekly dose, it gets me through the rest of the time without having to zombify myself with anti-anxiety and anti-depressants, which I’d taken various cocktails of since my parents died and never found the right combination for me. The club was the perfect prescription for me.
I pad into my bathroom and turn on the shower, letting the water heat up and making sure I have the right scented shampoo for my Dom of the evening. He prefers the fruity to the floral. After I’ve washed my hair, shave everything from my neck down, and soap up with my citrus body wash, I give everything one last extra rinse before stepping out and toweling off.
I wrap my hair up in a towel and slide my arms into my robe, tying the belt at the waist. I have a few hours to relax before I’m to be at the club tonight, and I plan on spending it in my comfy chair in my library, devouring the next VB Lowe book. Turns out, one of my favorite romance authors is a member of Club Alias and married one of the owners, so I get signed copies whenever she releases a new one. Which is quite frequently, if I think about it. I heard her talking one time about how her husband uses her word count as a game at home. I didn’t stick around to hear the details, but there was something about sexy punishments if she didn’t meet her goal for the day.
It sounded romantic to me, enough to make the tendrils of jealousy creep along the edges of my consciousness. And while I was having the greatest orgasms of my life every week, it made me uncomfortable to think about the loneliness I tried not to acknowledge when I was at home.
What would it be like to be in a relationship with someone who actually understands my needs? Someone who I could live this life with daily instead of having to wait for my weekly fix on Friday evenings. Sure, I could go any other day of the week if I wanted, but having to wake up so early during the work week—be there an hour before school starts plus my hour-long commute—doesn’t really allow for me to go more often. And normally I’m so exhausted after my Friday night adventure that going back Saturday evening is just a no-go for not only my ladybits but also my psyche.
Being on the receiving end of a Dom’s scene takes a lot out of a submissive, especially when those Doms are some of the best in the world thanks to Club Alias’s initiation rules and training. Yes, aftercare goes a long way right after you’re done to bring you back to reality from post-coital bliss, but I swear I need the whole rest of the weekend to feel halfway normal again by Monday. And that half-life high gets me through the rest of the week until Friday comes along once again.
But I’m not talking about having a relationship and doing full-on scenes every day. I’m talking about being with a man who understand my needs for submission in all aspects of my life. While I’m proud to be an independent woman, that doesn’t make it any less exhausting. That doesn’t make my anxiety any less, having to always be the only one there for myself, having to make every single little decision every moment of every day. For once, I’d like someone to be like “Hey, I’d like a burger tonight. Want to come?” Boom! Decision made about dinner and I didn’t even have to waste any brainpower on it. Or like “Hey, babe. The house is a wreck since we’ve been so busy. Let’s start with the kitchen and work our way to the bedroom, where we can reward ourselves when we’re done.” Sweet! Perfect! Plan made instead of having to wonder where the hell to start.
I bet Nate Black’s room is never a wreck.
Um, whoa. I don’t know where the hell that thought came from, but it needs to calm down with all that. I have no business wondering about anything having to do with that… guy. I don’t even know what to call him. He’s not really a bully. He’s never done anything to actually hurt me or anyone that I know of. He’s just… intimidating. Overwhelming. Definitely daunting and unnerving. Sometimes even menacing and straight-up terrifying—like when he slams the seats beneath the tables and gives his classmates that murderous look. But he’s never turned that expression on me before. The only looks he gives me are full of mischief and seduction, long, unwavering stares that make me fidget in my own skin. I’ve tried to stop showing any outward sign that he affects me, but it’s no use. I can’t hide the fact that he gets under my skin with just a look.
I shake away my thoughts, knowing I have a whole weekend of not having to deal with Nate. I can put him out of my head until Monday when I go back to work.
I curl up in my library and pull the bookmark from between the pages, starting on the chapter I left off on and getting lost in the story, not fighting the arousal that consumes me during the explicitly detailed love scenes as I imagine myself in the heroine’s place.
I choose to ignore the fact that my mind gives the Dominant hero the face of Nathaniel Black IV.
Chapter 3
Nate
I sit sprawled on Alistor’s couch, the party getting started earlier tonight than usual, since no one really had any projects or homework to do this weekend. I sip my beer, not really tasting it, because my mind is stuck on one thing… well, one person.
Ms. Richards.
I’ve been approached no less than fifteen times since I got here an hour ago. Every time a chick looks up and sees me sitting here alone without one of my buddies, they come over and try to entice me up to one of the bedrooms, or to the makeshift dance floor, or out to the hot tub. But I’ve shooed each and every one of them away, uninterested, my mind on the one woman who won’t leave my mind at peace when I’m not around her.
I don’t understand my obsession with her. Not really. I get the whole wanting what you can’t have aspect, seeing as she’s an employee at the school I attend. And I get the whole older woman thing. But isn’t the draw of being with an older woman to be with someone more experienced than you, to be with someone who can teach you a thing or two? The only thing Ms. Richards could teach me is the Dewey Decimal System, if I hadn’t already learned that in elementary school. She’s way too meek and innocent for it to be that.
But there’s just something about her that calls to me, calls to my very depths, my need to control and dominate. The way she practically cowers gives me this heady sensation, makes my dick hard every time she shrinks away. Yet at the same time, the thoughts I have while I’m stroking myself in the shower to images of her melting beneath my touch, enjoying what I’m doing to her, not flinching from my hands… That’s what always gets me off.