“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say as the exit comes into view. “Want to try to get together for lunch soon?”
“I can come your way on Monday,” she says. Jorie now lives in Vegas with Walsh in his penthouse suite atop The Royale. I live about half an hour away in Henderson, which is where we all grew up.
“Let’s do it,” I say without any thought to my calendar. My hair salon is closed on Sundays and Mondays.
“Okay, my love,” Jorie says softly and with such affection I’m already looking forward to our call tomorrow. “Have fun tonight.”
“Oh, I will,” I purr. At least, I think I will. Tonight, I’m trying something different. I’m nervous as hell about it, too.
Normally, The Wicked Horse is about socialization. I go, have drinks, mingle, and meet men. Eventually, I’ll meet someone I have a connection with. When I click with someone, we’ll hookup. Sometimes, I’ll reconnect with a prior lover who I have experience with. Hot, kinky sex follows, and I go home with a smile on my face and the continued freedom from the confines of a committed relationship. It works perfectly.
But I’m going in blind tonight—literally and figuratively. I won’t see the man I’ll be with. Something about that makes it even more exciting and slightly dangerous. I haven’t even met him. We’ve only exchanged a few messages through the sex club’s app. I’m putting all my trust in Jerico Jameson and his assurance he vets his members well.
Because I’ll have no say so in what happens to me tonight.
It’s my fantasy. As much as the thought of what might happen thrills me, it scares the hell out of me, too.
Which, in turn, thrills me even more.
In the last message we exchanged today, he’d told me to blindfold myself. Before I did, I read the note the concierge left. When I arrived at The Wicked Horse, an attendant directed me to one of the private rooms in the The Apartments, which is the super exclusive membership within the regular membership. Apparently, my date is affluent because few can afford this level of membership.
The note was simple and not from him, but clearly at his direction.
Please undress fully and put the blindfold on. You’re not to remove it at all. You’re also not to speak unless you want to use the safe word to stop.
The safe word is crocodile.
Silk sheets in a whitish-silvery color cover the bed in the middle of the room, and they feel cool and soft against my bare skin. The blindfold left for me is extra wide and red silk. I can’t see anything, not even a glimmer of light from the edges. Even though I feel a slight panic from not being able to see, I’m completely turned on right now.
Despite the fact the man isn’t even in the room with me.
My imagination has been on overdrive all day, but my mind is absolutely spinning with the possibilities right now. He told me there’d be rope, and that I should be a little afraid. I can’t help but squirm as I lay back on the cool sheets, trying to regulate my breathing by taking in several slow inhales of air and releasing them just as slowly.
I’m hoping tonight reveals something important about myself. That perhaps I can learn to trust in a man again, even if it’s only in bed.
The doorknob rattles slightly, and I go still. My hearing is on high alert, taking over for the loss of sight. Even though the hinges are well oiled, I can hear the whoosh of the door as it opens, and I swear I even feel the flutter of movement it produces along my body. I’d like to say I’m so sensitized it even hardens my nipples, but those tightened up the minute I got naked and put on the blindfold.
The door shuts and I strain to listen, but whoever has walked in—presumably my date—is making barely a sound.
But what if it’s not my date?
What if it’s some stranger—well, more of a stranger than the man I’ve been corresponding with—who has stumbled in on me.
I almost reach for the blindfold to take a peek, but I remember the instructions. I’m not to remove it at all. I have to bite my tongue to restrain myself from calling out to whomever is in the room with me.
There’s nothing but absolute silence until the soft tap of what must be dress shoes sounds against the hardwood floors, indicating the man—at least, I think I’ve been corresponding with a man—approaches me.
I mean… what if it’s a woman? I hadn’t thought about that. The user ID only said @sinemente1. The profile said “male”. At least, I think it did. I don’t recall specifically talking about it. What if it’s a woman here to do stuff to me?