Page 3 of Power Struggle

Introducing our first annual Kinkster Valentines Bash.

Do chains and whips excite you? How about a glory hole or St. Andrews Cross? Toys? Customized hotel rooms? All of the above?

Join us for a night of cultured debauchery and kinky memories.

Clothing and chocolate are optional.

Flicking through the rest of the flyer, it looks like a party for Kinkster VIPs and their guests to meet with other local singles that are on the app. There’s a required background and health check, which I remember being standard from my time on the app, as well as a required form to fill out that goes over your kinks, interests, dislikes, limits, and what you’re looking for. It’s all standard practice for such a party, from my experience. Much to my excitement, parties like this have been popping up much more frequently in recent years, but this will be the first one I’ll be able to attend.

Wait…have I already decided?

A shuffling noise drags my attention from the invitation, and I look up to find Phillip giving me a knowing smirk while gathering up our lunch. “Figured you’d be interested,” he murmurs. I swallow, and his smirk drops. Reaching over, he grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze that makes my heart pound uncomfortably. “It’s time to move on, Addison.”

My brows arch in surprise, but he merely rolls his eyes. “Like I’d miss the fact that my badass, man-eating boss had her first real crush.” I open my mouth to object, but Phillip shakes his head and steps away. “We don’t need to talk about it, Addy. I know that’s not who you are, but if you ever want to drop that fortress you pretend to live behind, I’m here.” Jutting his chin at the computer as he slowly walks back toward the door, smiling softly. “Until then—fill out the form, meet a sexy man, and get fucked until you’re bow-legged and dripping.” Winking, he turns on his heel, calling over his shoulder, “I know I will.”

Well, fuck. How can I argue with that?

Chapter Two

Valentine's Day

As it turns out, Kinkster’s Valentine’s Day party is being held at a new posh boutique hotel in downtown Denver called Omnia. After filling out the questionnaires, medical documentation, consent forms, and a rather iron-clad non-disclosure agreement, I received a gold leaf and lace invitation via courier. After that, it was just a waiting game.

Unlike what I’d been expecting, there was no line to get in outside. No crowds of excited singles dressed in their sexiest outfits, hoping to score at least once tonight. No signs pointed those of us with invitations in the right direction—nothing but an art deco-style black building with massive, curtained windows.

Men in pristine, black suits scanned the code on my invitation. Once they located my profile on their computer, I was given seven beautiful bracelets, each in a different color. I slipped them on quickly before being ushered inside and guided down a long dark hallway. I won’t lie and say my heart hadn’t practically been in my throat as I shuffled silently down the long corridor, unaware of what my fate would entail. Stopping abruptly, the suited man opened up a thick, wooden door that almost appeared medieval and ushered me through. I was so nervous that I’m pretty sure I left sweaty handprints down the sides of my black velvet cocktail dress.

At first, I’d been curious as to why a Valentine’s Day party required so much paperwork, but after just one minute inside the opulent, dark event room, I understood.

Now, here I stand, glued to the spot, unable to move further into the room as nerves consume me. My breath stutters in my lungs, and my eyes gape as I take in the space. The walls are a deep red and black baroque wallpaper with gold sconces every ten feet, casting a warm glow across the edges of the large room. The floor is dark-stained concrete that’s almost unfitting, with the overall luxurious feel surrounding me. There’s soft music playing in the background that I can barely make out beneath the low murmur of the attendees as they observe their surroundings. Surprisingly, there aren’t as many people here as I assumed there would be. A quick skim tells me that maybe forty or fifty people max were granted an invite.

The waitstaff is mingling about, carrying golden trays with champagne flutes and what appears to be hors d’oeuvres. I’m shocked at their level of professionalism as they do their job, completely ignoring what’s happening around them. All the guests I can see are dressed to impress, as the official invitation required. Cocktail dresses, suits, and slacks, all in black, allow our colorful bracelets to stand out.

After filling out all the forms, each approved attendee was matched with other applicants based on similarities. Each match was given an identical bracelet letting us all know, without words, who we’d pair well with. If you see or interact with a match and don’t like them, you can remove it and throw away your bracelet. At the night’s end, if two (or more) matching bracelets are worn, the pairs can stay and use a customized room. The system sounds more complex than it actually is. In my opinion, it’s pretty damn brilliant. I am, however, surprised to find that I matched so well with seven men. I was hoping I’d at least pair with one…but seven? Damn. Your girl has options tonight.

Hopefully, this pans out better than the months I spent on the actual app. Every single date was a flop, and the men were pretty fucking creepy.

My hands skim down my outfit, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles in a nervous gesture. My dress is tight, with a plunging heart-shaped neckline, showing off my curves and chest. I’ve paired it with black, sheer knee-highs with lace detailing around my thighs that connect to my garters and belt, hidden out of sight. Who knows. Maybe some lucky guy will actually get to unwrap me tonight and see what I’m hiding. My heels are black plumps with diamond detailing that matches the thick choker around my throat. My long, blonde hair is up in a high, curled ponytail that accentuates my neck. My makeup is clean and minimal, letting my red lips pop.

Unlike my mother and background would suggest—I didn’t find inspiration for my outfit from one of the many high-end catalogs she has sent to my house. No…I modeled my outfit after a similar one in one of my favorite books, Violet Craves, where the main character spends a hot night getting railed by three tattooed Gods.

How do you like that, mom? I take my style advice from reverse harem smut books these days, and I’m proud as fuck about it.

I smirk as a shiver works its way down my spine at the memory of how the main female character had been degraded, devoured, and destroyed in the best way all night long. It got even better in the second book when she had a threesome with two of her boyfriends. She pegged one while he sucked the other’s cock. I have to fan myself at the thought—hashtag goals.

A particularly loud grunt pulls my attention from my musings, and my eyes trail the expansive room to find its source. It’s then that I realize I’ve been rooted to the spot just a few feet inside the door, too overwhelmed with nerves, excitement, and a heavy dose of shock to move. Shock, because the second I stepped through the door a moment ago, I realized what tonight was really all about.

Sex? Obviously. I’d assumed. Meeting people in the kink community? Clearly. It’s stated in the invite. A night of luxury? I gathered it from the gold leaf and lace paper hand-delivered to me last month.

However—what they failed to mention is that this entire party is interactive in all shapes and forms.

Swallowing, I hedge forward, deeper into the room. I roll my shoulders back and make sure my neck is held high. With my gut sucked in tight, I allow my 6-inch heels to glide across the shiny floor. Five steps in, and I’m so distracted by the shiver-inducing moans all around me that I run directly into a waiter. Somehow, we steady each other without spilling the tray of champagne he’s handing out.

“Sorry,” I murmur awkwardly. He tilts his head to the side, looking up a good four inches at my now 5’10 height, and scowls at me. It’s so unlike the usual looks I receive from men, especially when I’m dressed like this.

“Watch where you’re fucking going, lady,” he snaps quietly.

His eyes flick around the room, likely checking to make sure his supervisors didn’t overhear him mistreating a guest that paid over a grand to be here. Finding us unsurprisingly alone so near the door when the rest of the festivities are happening further in the room, he turns back to me with a wicked smirk and lets his eyes travel down my body. Clearly finding me wanting, he grimaces. I scoff. Fuck this prick.

---