C.H.A.S.E. 3: Welcome to the Fetish Club Read online

  C.H.A.S.E. 3: Welcome to the Fetish Club

  Shelby Morgen

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2007 Shelby Morgen

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  ISBN: 978-1-59596-143-3

  Formats Available:

  HTML, Adobe PDF,

  MobiPocket, Microsoft Reader

  Publisher:

  Changeling Press LLC

  PO Box 1046

  Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046

  www.ChangelingPress.com

  Editor: Maryam Salim

  Cover Artist: Sahara Kelly

  This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  C.H.A.S.E. 3: Welcome to the Fetish Club

  Shelby Morgen

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

  “Trust me, this’ll be a blast.”

  “Last time you said that I ended up with worm guts between my teeth.”

  Ani’s stressed. She really needs to forget her asshole boss, Richard (Richard Marten, owner of Brasden-Marten). She also needs to get laid. (The two dilemmas are soooo not related.)

  Crystal’s got a membership at The Fetish Club. Two girlfriends. One bottle of tequila. And a charity auction… How bad can it get?

  Crystal wants Ani. Ani wants revenge. Richard -- you remember Richard? -- Richard has… the Victoria’s Secret underwear?

  Warning: C.H.A.S.E. 3 contains elements of BDSM play known as “Risk Aware Consensual Kink” which can be dangerous if not done properly. Seek training from a competent professional before attempting to recreate any of these scenes.

  For Crystal and Ani and all the members of the League who’ve listened to me bemoan the trials and tribulations of coaxing this plot out on stage. Like Ricky, it was shy… thanks for holding my hand!

  9:10 PM, Saturday, 10 February 2007

  The Fetish Club

  A remodeled warehouse in the garment district of lower Manhattan

  “Come on, ladies, don’t quit now. Just look at this beauty. Nine hundred dollars, what a steal. Nine hundred, I’ve got nine hundred. Do I hear one thousand?”

  My oh my. Crystal’s mouth watered just watching the sub strut down the runway and back. Tall, trim, elegant, bold, and yet charmingly shy, the stunning brunette -- Ricky, according to the program -- pirouetted gracefully, no easy task on three-inch spiked heels -- the ankle length red satin dress parting to reveal a flash of long, lean, perfectly waxed leg. Cool, slippery fabric over warm, silky skin. And beneath that skin, all the tone and muscle of a man’s strength, submitting to her will. The contrast -- satin on steel -- a woman’s looks, a man’s strength -- always made her hot.

  Crystal raised her placard and nodded her chin.

  “One thousand. Do I hear --”

  “Ten-fifty!”

  “Eleven hundred.”

  “Eleven hundred, I need twelve, twelve hundred for this gorgeous sub here, who’ll give me twelve? Come on, ladies, it’s for a good cause!”

  Marteeka turned away, feigning disinterest. Crystal knew better. She’d never seen this sub before. No one had. Which was exactly what was driving the price up. The sub had “fresh meat” written all over him. Breaking this one in would be a Domme’s wet dream… tearing him down, finding out what made him tick, building him back up again… Marteeka wanted him all right, but this prime piece of beef was out of her price range.

  Ani, on the other hand…

  “Looks like it’s down to you and me. Unless you want to bow out now.”

  Crystal shook her head. “Not this time, Ani. He’s mine.”

  Ani smiled and raised her fingers. “Eleven-fifty!”

  “Eleven-fifty, eleven-fifty, give me twelve hundred.”

  “You know you can’t outbid me.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  Crystal twitched her head a fraction of an inch.

  “Twelve, I have twelve, give me thirteen. Thirteen hundred dollars, ladies! How bad do you want this pretty little sub?”

  Little? Crystal almost laughed. Red satin gown and heels aside, the “little” sub might well be gorgeous, but he was close to six feet tall. And it was beginning to look like Ani wanted him very badly. Time to up the ante. “Fourteen hundred.”

  “Fifteen!”

  “Seventeen-fifty.”

  “Bitch.”

  Crystal loved being right. Now to make her friend admit the truth. “Do you want him, or do you just want to win?”

  “You said I was ready.” Ani waved her placard at the auctioneer. “Eighteen-fifty!”

  “For a sub of your own, yes. But not to break in fresh meat.”

  “I want this sub.”

  “I can outbid you. You know that.”

  “But will you? How bad do you want him?”

  “Eighteen-fifty going once…”

  Crystal shrugged. “I like to win.” She raised one finger. “Two thousand dollars.”

  “We could share.” Ani sounded almost desperate.

  “We could.” Crystal eyed her speculatively. “Why do you want him so badly? There are plenty of subs to choose from tonight. No reason to risk so much.”

  Ani tapped her placard against her palm, chewing her lip, as if trying to decide how much to reveal. Always a telling sign.

  “Two thousand going once…”

  “I know him,” Ani admitted at last, desperation showing in the set of her shoulders.

  “Twice…”

  Interesting. “My place?”

  “Deal.”

  “Sold!” The gavel banged on the wooden podium, echoing through the room like a gunshot. “To bidder #43. Remember, ladies and gentlemen, it’s for a good cause. All proceeds go directly to the Foundation for Aids Research.”

  Crystal let her gaze travel across the room to where the gorgeous brunette in a long red satin fuck-me dress was being led from the stage. “So, who is he?”

  “My boss. Richard-the-asshole.”

  4:15 PM, Friday, 13 January 2006

  (Thirteen months ago)

  Brasden-Marten Agency

  Midtown Manhattan

  Richard slouched lower in his chair, staring down the hall. What the hell? There she was again, his secretary -- Ani, this one’s name was -- dressed in a stylishly cut man’s suit. She looked damned hot in it, too. Talk about double standards. Just let him walk in to work in a designer dress, and there’d be hell to pay. He shifted uneasily in his chair again, adjusting the satin panties so they didn’t ride over the burn on his tender skin.

  To add insult to injury, that witch -- the one who’d dumped the pot of coffee all over his freshly waxed skin -- had not only burnt the insides of his thighs, she’d also ruined a brand new pair of Victoria’s Secret satin panties. There was no way he’d ever get the stains out of them. Not once they’d set. He couldn’t exactly run to the ladies room and wash them out while the stain was still fresh, either.

  The men’s room would have been worse. Oh, yeah. He could see it now. Stripping down to his poor scalded skin in front of the prying eyes of a dozen male models. Not a straight one in the bunch.

  Not that it mattered. They were models. Clients. They could do and say -- and wear --
whatever they wanted. Not him. He was the president of the firm. There were proprieties to be observed. Clients to impress. Rules.

  Always, always, there were rules. The rules started from the time he learned to walk. Act like a gentleman, Richard. Say thank you, Richard. Excuse yourself, Richard. A gentleman doesn’t do that, Richard. You can’t wear that, Richard. What would people think? Oh, no, you can’t date her, Richard. She’s not one of us. Of course you’re going to law school, Richard. Your father’s alma mater. It’s all been arranged. You can’t do that, Richard. We must keep up appearances.

  Why? Fuck them. Fuck them all. Them and anyone else who expected him to do the right thing. He’d tried to play by their rules, and what had it gotten him? Forty-five years old, divorced, and miserable. True, the firm was doing well, but not by his parents’ standards. What’s more, they expected him to remarry -- an appropriate woman, from their social circles, this time -- give up this foolish idea of running a modeling agency, join the family firm, and produce the prerequisite heirs to the family fortune.

  Maybe tomorrow he’d ditch the Armani suit and come in wearing three-inch spiked heels and a raw silk dress split clear up to his perfectly waxed thigh. That ought to send a few whispers of shock rippling through Mother’s social circles.

  He’d be the only one in the office wearing a dress, too. And he’d like to see any of the women around here try wearing spiked heels. He was tired of hiding, damn it. He wanted more. So much more than forbidden underthings hidden beneath his perfectly tailored Armani suit.

  Richard opened his desk drawer and pulled out the invitation once more.

  You are cordially invited to attend the 19th Annual

  Fetish Club New Year’s Eve Bash.

  The gala event of the season.

  Please RSVP to reserve your table today.

  The Fetish Club. Totally inappropriate. He couldn’t be seen in a place like that. Why hadn’t he thrown the invitation away? The party’d been nearly two weeks ago. He didn’t have any idea why he’d gotten the invitation in the first place. Or why he’d kept it. He started to shut the drawer.

  Hell. What did it matter who sent it, or why? He knew why he’d kept it. If he was ever going to find someone who’d accept him for what he was, it was time to make a move. Maybe The Fetish Club was the place to start.

  7:00 PM, Saturday, 10 February 2007

  The Fetish Club

  Loud, strident, angry. The music penetrated every orifice, whether you wanted it to or not, like an uncaring lover. The place was packed, the dance floor writhing with near naked bodies, clad only in bits and pieces of black leather.

  Fetish Club indeed. This was definitely not her kind of kink. These people were over the top. Too noisy. Too out of control. Too… too young.

  “Please, Mistress, let me suck your toes.”

  Crystal grimaced in distaste. “Go away.” She didn’t need to watch some handsome young stud wearing nothing more than a black leather G-string and a studded black collar get down on his hands and knees and crawl to the bar to fetch a drink for his Mistress. She’d always preferred a less ostentatious lifestyle. She liked structure. Order.

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Ani mumbled for the twentieth time.

  “You can do this, Ani. Trust me. You’re ready.”

  “Last time you said ‘trust me’ I woke up with worm guts between my teeth the next morning.”

  “I also warned you to stay away from the tequila,” Crystal reminded her. “You’ve got to learn to do things in moderation.” It wasn’t advice she took herself, of course. She’d never done things halfway. Which was exactly why she’d ended up here. With Ani. Waiting for the 5th annual Valentine’s Charity Sub Auction to begin.

  Because Ani wanted to be here. And, well, because Crystal just couldn’t risk letting Ani attend alone. God knew what she’d bring home.

  It had started out innocently enough. An invitation to the famed Fetish Club for their 20th Annual New Year’s Eve party. The invitation said she could bring a guest, and naturally, the first person she’d thought of was Ani, the Domme she’d been mentoring for the last year and a half.

  Then, while they were sipping drinks and watching subs perform anatomically amazing feats, Ani had spotted a flyer on the events board. “Hey! They’re having an auction!”

  “Whatever thought just popped into your head, Ani, douse it. Remember last time, the male dancers at the strip club, the tequila?”

  “It’s a charity sub auction to raise money for AIDS research. For Valentine’s Week. 24/7 Power Exchange.” Ani brought a copy of the flyer back to their table. “I want one of these. I’m going.”

  Crystal could have pointed out that the same subs could be had by simply joining the club and letting it be known she was in the market. She didn’t. She could see too many possibilities in this. Because while Ani was indeed going to make a fine Domme, Crystal knew Ani better than Ani knew herself. And in her heart, Ani would always be a sub.

  Crystal’s sub.

  Maybe it was time she reminded Ani of just how well they worked together. She hid her grin in a melodramatic sigh. “I’m going to regret letting you talk me into this, aren’t I?”

  “Hey, don’t blame me. I’m not talking you into anything. All I said was that I’m going to go buy me a toy-boy.”

  “Well, then, someone has to keep you out of trouble.”

  Ani raised one delicately sculptured eyebrow. “Right…”

  9:00 PM, Saturday, 10 February 2007

  The Fetish Club

  “I can’t go through with this.”

  “Ricky? Baby? What’s wrong?”

  Half a dozen long-legged, broad-shouldered gurls swarmed around Ricky, their faces frowning in concern.

  “I can’t go out there. I can’t.”

  Chandra put an arm around his shoulders. “Everybody gets stage fright the first time, Ricky, baby. You’re going to be nervous, gurl. That’s all right. You’ll do just fine.”

  “About as fine as three-day-old leftovers.” Richard fisted his hands in the satin, fighting the urge to rip off the stupid dress and go hide in his office in the politically correct Armani suit he wore like armor to protect himself from ever having to face a day like this.

  He smoothed the red satin down carefully, making sure his fists hadn’t left marks in the fabric. He’d spent a small fortune on it, just for tonight. Not the dress’s fault. These were his friends, the “gurls” he’d rehearsed with for months, and they cared about him. Or leastwise they cared about Ricky. He’d found a home here. Family. More of a family than he’d ever known. And this was what they did. This annual fundraiser was about so much more than raising money for AIDS. It was about holding on to the dream that somewhere, somehow, there was a partner who was meant to find them. Meant to love them, just as they were.

  He had to do this. Ricky had to do this, for all of them. He took a deep breath and did his best to pull himself back together. “What if someone I know’s out there?”

  “That could happen, baby, but you got to remember, any Domme who sees you here tonight, well, she’s got to be a member, too. And there’s a lot kinkier stuff goes on at this club than anything we do. You’re going to raise a lot of money tonight, and it’s for a good cause. Now you go enjoy yourself for a week and don’t you worry about a thing.”

  “Entry number nineteen, Ricky Valley!”

  “Go on, gurl! You can do this!”

  Richard couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. But Ricky could. Ricky gave a final tug to the deep red satin dress and twitched her hips, clicking her three-inch stiletto heels together once. “Wish me luck!”

  “Break a leg, baby, break a leg.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, a big round of applause for Ricky Valley!”

  The crowd whistled and cheered. Ricky held her head up and shook her mane of carefully arranged curls back over one shoulder, cocking one hip as she turned to head down the runway. Yeah. Oh yeah. Ricky could do this.
<
br />   “We’ll start the bidding at five hundred dollars. Five hundred. Five hundred. Give me five hundred for this gorgeous sub…”

  The voice faded into the background as the stage lights warmed her skin to a feverish glow. Ricky had been born to do this. No matter what happened, even if no one offered a bid, she’d had this night, this chance to be Ricky. Whatever the cost, it was worth it. Richard might hide in the shadows beneath that perfectly tailored Armani suit, but Ricky would never have to wonder what it would be like to fly free. Never again.

  9:25 PM, Saturday, 10 February 2007

  The Fetish Club

  “I’m not going anywhere with her.”

  Crystal held up a hand to stem Ani’s angry retort, wishing for the thirtieth time in ten minutes she’d asked why Ani was bidding so insistently on this particular sub. She called on every bit of presence she’d learned from eight years as an MP and another half dozen as a Mistress to pull the situation under control. “Quiet. Both of you.”

  God, blessed silence. Ricky crossed his arms over his chest, green eyes shooting daggers at Ani, while she scowled back at him, but they both held their tongues.

  For the moment.

  Calm. Crystal needed to project an aura of calm power and control. “Ricky, you entered this agreement of your own free will, and you agreed to the contract terms.”

  “I did not agree to --”

  “Silence! There are only two words I want to hear from you, and you will say them, now.”

  Ricky snapped his mouth shut, though his frown couldn’t have dropped any deeper. Finally, his jaw muscles straining with the effort, his lips moved.

  “Try that again. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Thank you.” Crystal turned her traffic cop hand toward Ani. “Ani, you agreed to the same contract terms when you signed up for this event. I brought you here. I sponsored you. You will act like the Domme I trained you to be, or Ricky and I will go home alone.”