Page 104 of Unbind

61

ADAM

Following Nat up the broad industrial staircase in the centre of the room is the best kind of foreplay, especially given how conscious I am that she’s not wearing panties tonight. We bypass The Playroom and head straight for the next floor. The highly specific surprise I’ve booked for her is in one of the private rooms.

‘Room twenty-four, please,’ I say to the young woman standing at the entrance to the long corridor that stretches ahead.

‘Name please, sir?’ she asks with an appreciative glance at Nat.

‘Wright.’

‘Certainly Mr Wright. Enjoy your evening.’ She hands me a heavy, old-school iron key that feels pleasantly cool and appropriately weighty as I close my fingers around it.

‘I’m sure we will,’ I say, curling my arm around Nat’s sequin-covered waist as I draw her down the corridor.

Space is certainly at a premium here. The doors are far more spaced out than in London. But the key difference, and the one Nat clocks immediately with an amusinglyaudible gasp, is that every single one has a large viewing window.

Some showcase dim, empty rooms, quietly waiting for a spectacle to unfold within.

Some have their scarlet curtains drawn, the bleed of golden light at their edges the only sign that the room is occupied.

And some are gloriously, seductively open, beckoning passersby and voyeurs alike to stop and sample the delights of the tableaux they showcase.

It seems there are already voyeurs aplenty. One window has drawn a small crowd, and we stop, Nat still pulled tightly against me. My gaze lands on a couple watching. Her back is to his front. She has crimson-coloured hair in a vintage-looking updo and is wearing a cropped black corset and black leather leggings. His hand is down the front of said leggings as they watch, and, judging by the way she’s grinding against his dick, I’d say he’s hitting the spot.

I smile to myself. I wonder if I could ever get my beautiful little minx to capitulate so fully that she’d allow me to touch her like that in public. My instincts say no, but God knows she’s surprised me so far.

A glance through the window shows two fucking huge Black men spit-roasting a voluptuous red-haired women. All three are naked, writhing, the sheen of sweat on their skin suggesting they’ve been at it for some time. A shot of desire spears through me, causing me to harden further.

I notice belatedly that there are a couple of old-school telephone receivers hooked just below the window. I pick one up to see if my hunch is correct, grin when I hear that it absolutely is, and put the receiver to Nat’s ear.

She gasps again and turns scarlet. ‘Oh my God.’

Yep. I suspect she just had a sample of what the guy fucking the woman is saying to her.

‘You’ve got to be Alchemy’s most shockable employee by a country mile,’ I tell her as I lead us away from the window, and she swats me.

‘Shut up.’

‘It’s true. And I think it’s adorable.’

‘Does our room…’ she begins. ‘Does it have a window?’

‘It does. And a curtain. And a mute button for the microphones. I’ll allow you to decide how brave you’re feeling.’

She mutters something under her breath that I don’t quite catch, but it sounds amusing, in any case.

We reach room twenty-four, and I guide her through with a hand on the small of her back, immediately locking the door and pulling the velvet curtains closed over the viewing window, which is actually a two way mirror. I want to give her privacy while she ponders what she wants. The microphone under the window defaults to off, so we’re safe on that front.

I tug her against my front as we take in the room. It’s far bigger than the ones in London, but the look and feel are similar: sculptural wall sconces and midnight-blue walls and ornate lacquered cabinets housing all manner of toys. There’s a massive bed—it must be eight feet across—kitted out with metal hoops, just like in London. On the far wall, brackets support a selection of spreader bars, and I’m reminded of my extreme interest in rigging Nat up on one of those sooner rather than later.

But none of these delights are what’s holding her attention right now, because, planted in the middle of the empty space in front of the bed and in prime position for the viewing window is a wonderful example of an antique spanking bench. It looks to be made from oak withburgundy leather padding. From the lower branches for the recipient’s—orvictim’s—arms and legs, leather cuffs hang open.

‘Is this the surprise?’ she asks, turning to look up at me. All sorts of thoughts and emotions are travelling over her face, and I’d give a lot to be privy to them right about now.

‘Yes.’ I trace the outline of her lower lip softly with my thumb pad. ‘Do you know what it is?’

‘I have some idea,’ she mutters. ‘But you’d better enlighten me.’

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