Page 8 of Red

I was met with silence, and I knew that I had just unintentionally raised a flag of my own. "That's right. Something is off about this chick. I know that she's sexy. I'm straight as an arrow and I got a little wet when I saw what she did to Colin-"

"It's not like that," I said quickly. Too quickly, which was was why Mary let out a grunt of disbelief. "I'll come up to the office now."

"Nah, the interview is done," Mary explained. "That ain't why I'm calling."

I frowned. "Why are you calling?"

"I have an idea." I could see the sparkle in her eye, hear the excitement in her voice. "Her name is Sophia. She wants to go by Sin while she’s working. I want you to take her to one of the control rooms. Let her see what goes on here. That's how we'll know if she's full of shit or not."

Usually, I'd mirror Mary's excitement blow for blow. We'd put a few of our hostesses through the ringer a handful of times in the past. Liza was one of them, and I could still remember the look of sheer awe on her face while we watched a flogging—and when the Dom either failed to hear the submissive croak 'red' or chose to ignore it, she practically barreled through the screen to stop the scene.

But I knew it could go either way. She could be a fraud or worst. She could see a D/s encounter and realize that it was something she had absolutely no interest in. The exchange we had, eyes locking and everyone else, everything else fading to black could be it. The fact that I cared at all, that I cared too much, was a thought that I refused to acknowledge as the elevator shot me to the second floor. I even convinced myself that the butterflies was bourbon on a fairly empty stomach. But this pretending thing was much harder than slipping on a mask and remembering that all of this was sex and kink. No more, no less.

I had to rein in the urge to grin like an idiot when I saw the pink haired sub, Sin, snap to attention when I turned around the corner, approaching her with my heart in my throat. For a man with a docket filled with shows where we manufactured and twisted the truth, I found myself hoping that she was the real deal.

My quick once over before hadn’t done her justice. Words like ‘beautiful’, ‘sexy’, and ‘edgy’ were suddenly not even close to describing how alluring she was. I didn't roam over her body, because I knew I'd learn every square inch of flesh, every freckle, every place that made her croon with pleasure. I took in her sharp, angular features, reminding me of my childhood. Girls who held their own and shied away from dolls, getting down and dirty with the boys in the neighborhood. Sophia was a woman that you couldn't help but notice because every feature from the cut of her chin, to the slope of her nose, and her marble cheekbones confirmed the obvious. She was beautiful. In makeup, without a swipe of it, she glowed with a confidence that made me want to come closer and bask in her.

Just as I was about to tell her that she was hired, she jerked out her hand to shake mine.

"Hi! I'm Sin, but you can call me whatever you want," she purred in some practiced tone. "I can't wait to get a tour of the facilities!"

I stared at her hand, my excitement draining from me like air from a ballon. I now had physical proof that she either wasn't a submissive, or she was nothing like any submissive I'd encountered.

Chapter Five: Sophia

When Mary first marched me into a room filled with more masks than Party City, the absurdity of all this slammed into me like a freight train. Me, pretending that I belonged in this world of fantasy and sex. Me, smiling as she latched a collar on my neck while inside, I was screaming, what the hell have you gotten yourself into? Me, bullshitting my way through an interview, committing everything to memory for my story. Me, realizing that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to do the whole submissive thing if I could be his submissive.

The man in the black mask.

Not the idiot who was wearing the bedazzled black mask. He was the epitome of the kind of man I expected to run into when I began research on BDSM clubs. Presumptuous men. Men who turned to this kink because they got off on treating women like possessions. Trophies to be collected and notches on the bedpost instead of living, breathing people.

The minute I stepped into the main room, telling a teeny lie to Mary about having to go to the bathroom, I memorized every fixture, every square inch. It was like a Wonderland of sex, the variety of women ranging from waif like models to women with curves for days. The men ran the same gamut from the ridiculously buff and intimidating to lean and lanky.

I was standing as inconspicuously as I could in my own get up, stunned at all of the nudity and intrigued by all the potential for my article, when the gross dude in the silly black mask with jewels and feathers walked up and looped an arm around my waist. Apparently with all the money he was flashing, the suit, the Rolex, he also thought I was for sale too. I would have settled for extricating myself and politely declining—until his hand dropped to my ass. The fact that I was somewhere I wasn't technically supposed to be, and that I should be making nice with everyone so I could gain these people's trust (loose lips sink ships and all of that) kinda evaporated. I warned him, he came at me, and one of the many maneuvers my dad had taught me came rushing to the surface. Still high off adrenaline and disgust, I’d cast my eyes over the crowd that gathered around us when I saw him.

This guy didn't look totally ridiculous in his black mask, screaming for attention and being the utter opposite of sexy. This guy stood out in the crowd because he seemed so casual, so James Bond smooth in his sleek two piece suit that made me completely forget that Bond wasn't my type at all.

His mask covered his eyes and his nose but it was like he wasn't wearing one at all. He pulled me in with eyes that glimmered like some far off place filled with wonder and sex and restraints.

I'd questioned if I could actually submit, and one look at him and I knew that the answer was yes.

I could submit.

I could submit to him.

God, I needed to submit to him.

And now he was standing in front of me, glaring at me like I was offering him a dead fish instead of my hand.

"Um..." I'd already told him my name. Well, my 'club name' anyway. Mary had grinned from ear to ear as she typed it into the computer, but maybe he was unimpressed. Maybe he thought it was silly. All of this is silly. You're both wearing masks for crissakes.

With that, I dropped my hand and played off the slight. I even repeated the name. I didn't care if it was silly or not. "I'm Sin. And you are?"

The smile he'd flashed me on the dance floor was long gone. "I'm here to give you a brief tour of the facilities." He said no more, walking right past me. I took a few moments to watch him, my lips twisting into a frown that relaxed almost immediately. I drank in his tall, muscular body. The way his shoulders rippled, the way the pants gripped his behind when he moved. I should have been more annoyed by how flat out rude he was being, but I was too busy wondering if it would be way unsub-like to tell him that I was hoping he was taking me into one of the rooms I'd passed so he could conduct a second, R-rated interview.

I scrambled to keep up and decided to hold onto my naughty thoughts. "I'm thrilled about this opportunity." I channeled 'Sin', trying to sell my alter ego to this man that I was sure was super intense, inside and outside of Hush. "I'm so used to hotels and sketchfest clubs where I wasn't sure I'd make it out alive." I laughed at the last bit and he slowed ever so slightly, like I'd finally said something interesting. "This place is like, the Taj Mahal of BDSM clubs." That last bit was the honest truth. Or as close to the truth as anything I'd shared over the past hour. While I didn't have a bunch of BDSM experience, I'd done the club thing back in college. Except for the freedom of dancing and drinking with my friends, I kinda wanted to Purell my whole body after leaving those places. Yet, even though very dirty things happened behind those doors, were currently happening, there was no undercurrent of raunchiness. No need to clutch the pepper spray waiting in my purse. No desire to bolt for fear of catching something by just breathing the air. Everything gleamed, everything looked top of the line and oozed luxury and comfort.

"Do you know the owner?" I piped as we kept moving to some unknown destination. "Not that I can afford it, but the style is just so lush and gorgeous. Like Game of Thrones, if it was set in 2015."

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