1
Sabina
It’s been over an hour, and I’m starting to rethink this whole sodding evening. The air is stiflingly hot, and it’s not just my palms which are clammy as I tug once again at the dratted skirt which insistently rides up my thighs, even though I’m not doing anything but standing in line. The new heels I’m wearing are pinching my toes and making my calves ache, and while I do get off on pain in a variety of circumstances, enduring burning soles in the attempt to make my legs look longer is not high on my kink list. Some women wear high heels effortlessly. Unfortunately, I am not one of them.
Pushing a damp strand of hair off my face, I blow out a breath and stare at the bouncer’s broad, suited back, willing him to turn and look at me, to finally let me into this club I’ve heard so much about but never been allowed to attend. Never until now, I correct myself. The bouncer doesn’t move.
All around me, people are making easy, casual conversation, almost as if they expected a long wait, and are impervious to the muggy evening air. After all, Club Toxic is currently the most happening destination in downtown Tucson, despite persistent rumors that some people have come here and never been seen again.
People do love to gossip.
While there’s a whole bunch of us waiting in line like the kids who were always picked last for the team, every now and then, self-important individuals or small groups of people sweep right on by—most of them not even deigning to glance our way—and march confidently up to the two burly doormen who immediately step aside—if not deferentially, then at least respectfully. This has happened a few times since I’ve been standing here, and although I’ve checked repeatedly, I haven’t yet been able to spot any kind of wristband or hand stamp or anything else to distinguish these obviously VIP guests from the rest of us.
What do they have that we haven’t?
Glancing behind me, I see that dozens more people have since joined the queue, all dressed in their clubbing finery, all apparently content to stand forever in the oppressive Arizona heat just for a chance to... do what, exactly? Have a drink? Hang out with their friends? This is Tucson, there’s no shortage of venues for a good night out. So why this one? What’s so special about Club Toxic? Is it just the reputation? The rumors? Are they thrill-seekers, or merely desperate to be trendy?
I have an ulterior motive for being here, but even so, I’ve now made up my mind that if I don’t get in within the next ten minutes, I’m going home. Whenever Zeke talked about this place, his lip curling into a sneer as he warned me to stay the fuck away, he never mentioned having to stand in line for hours first. That would have been more of a deterrent than anything else he could have told me.
Ironically, it was his casual hint that there might be a kink scene here which piqued my interest. We had been dating for a week or so, and discussing whether to go out—and where to—when I had suggested Club Toxic.
“Absolutely not,” he’d said, his thick blond brows drawing together in a frown. “And you don’t go there, ever.”
“Why?” I’d asked him, genuinely baffled. It was the first time I’d seen him so aggressive.
“It’s not just a nightclub. It’s dangerous. I’ve heard things. Shit goes on in the basement… people getting up to all kinds of perverted stuff. There was recently a shooting outside. I don’t want to discuss it. Just promise me you’ll never go.”
“I promise,” I’d said, desperate to ask more questions but recognizing that it probably wasn’t a good idea in his current mood.
Zeke. That asshole. As it turned out, that first display of thinly veiled belligerence was just the tip of the iceberg. I dumped him yesterday, after barely four weeks of dating. I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.
I don’t need anyone.
Still, it was with a tiny, perverse sense of satisfaction that I got dressed up tonight and came out here—partly because I could really use a good play session, and partly because I know how furious Zeke would be if he knew. Not that I intend for him to find out.
It’s been way too long since I was able to lose myself in that heady, intoxicating bliss of subspace. I don’t know for sure whether there really is any kind of BDSM club in the basement, but I’d very much like to find out.
“You there! The blonde!”
It takes me a second to realize that someone’s calling out to me and I turn to find the source of the gruff male voice. A tall man is standing on the other side of the velvet rope, a mere foot or so away, his piercing gaze directed at me. I raise a questioning eyebrow.
“Yes, you. Want to come in with me?”
Even though it’s phrased as a question, there’s an inherent hint of command in his inflection and I find myself obeying instinctively, ducking under the rope and moving towards him.
Some people just have that dominant tone which flicks my sub switch. Besides, this is my ticket inside. I’d be a complete fool to turn it down.
I’m no fool.
As soon as I reach the man’s side, he grips my upper arm and steers me toward the doors, not even giving me a chance to examine him properly. No matter. If we don’t get on, I can make my excuses and go explore by myself. I just have to get through the fucking door first.
“Allan. Liam.” My new companion addresses the bouncers curtly as they step aside to let us through. A blast of arctic air-conditioning ruffles my hair as we head into the club proper.
The place is jammed with writhing, grinding bodies and the thumping, bass-heavy music makes it seem like a living thing, an entity with a powerful heartbeat controlling everyone inside.
“Drink?” my companion asks once we’ve passed the coat check booth.
“Name?” I counter, glad when he comes to a halt and looks down at me because now I finally have a chance to assess him. His dark hair flops over his smooth, pale forehead. He has a large, almost beaky nose and thin, unsmiling lips.
“Ethan,” he says, his hand still possessively on my upper arm. And you are?”
“Sabina.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
He has a strange accent. I want to say British but not quite. Almost as if he’s lived in a few different places. If I had to guess his age, I’d say mid to late thirties. Physically he’s not really my type, but now that I’m actually inside the club, I’m not keen on the idea of wandering around alone just yet. “It’s nice to meet you too. And I’d love a drink. Thank you.”
Ethan steers me off to the right, to a huge, mahogany bar. All the stools are occupied and I curse inwardly. I had been hoping for a chance to give my sore, aching feet a break.
“Red wine?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“Good choice.” He turns back to the bar and I’m amazed at how fast he’s served, considering the crowd.
While he organizes the drinks, I assess my surroundings. It’s cooler than it was outside, but not by much, which is something I attribute to the sheer number of people crammed into the place. There’s a lounge area to my right, beyond the L-shaped mahogany bar. The dance floor is directly in front of me. Couples are dancing, grinding up against one another to the point of dry-humping in places, but try as I might, I can’t see any trace of anything even remotely kinky.