Nocturnes Read Online Free PDF Page B

tables in the VIP room, Duane on my heels like a horny dog looking for a hump, I scan for Lola once more. No sign of her. I sigh.
    No phone number, no date, no chance.
    Fuck. When I walked into this club earlier, I had nothing, and I’m leaving with even less. With no one to hang out with, the only place left to go is my temporary digs on Chartres Street. I give Nocturnes a wistful last glance.
    Back to hell it is.

Side B: “Highway to Hell”
    It’s too bad that Rex guy was so drunk. I might have actually enjoyed giving him a lap dance if he’d been sober. I can’t for the life of me remember him from Jacksonville, though I rarely recall customers outside of my regulars. He was hotter than most of my clients but a little too full of himself.
    Take a number, buddy.

    My black lace and spandex outfit switched out for a plush white number, I descend the dark, hidden stairs from Nocturnes into the bright lights of Hell. This place is actually called Heaven by its patrons and Charlie, the owner of Nocturnes. Only the “stock” call it Hell.
    To an outsider, it probably does look like heaven. Everything here is white—the carpet, the furniture, walls, décor. The main room of Hell features a king-sized bed in the center, the posts at each corner outfitted with white leather straps and cuffs.
    Twenty-eight naked male attendants with perfect bodies adorn the room—seven on each wall. They’re all about the same height. No tattoos, piercings, or other marks on them, just like the girls who call this place home. Each one strokes his erection. Faces slack, they center their attention on the empty bed.
    Tacked to the walls behind the men are various implements traditionally used in BDSM play. Whips, cats-o’-nine tails, floggers, collars, chastity belts, cock rings, assorted gags, suspension cuffs, rope, blindfolds, nipple clamps, paddles, hoods—you name it. Everything a Dom needs within an arm’s reach. All of it white.
    Molly, Hell’s “madam” for all intents and purposes, strides in from one of the side doors and twirls her upraised finger in a circle. My cue to hold out my arms, spread my legs, and prepare to be searched. The TSA have nothing on Molly. She inspects every “angel” before we’re allowed to interact with our clients. Rico calls it “quality assurance.” We angels must be perfect in every way. This means no cuts, bruises—hell, we can’t even exhibit traces of acne. If we don’t pass inspection, we don’t work.
    I try to keep still while Molly slides my thong aside, pops my boobs from the plush bra, and runs her fingers over every inch of skin. Sometimes I wonder if the inspection isn’t more of a violation than the acts we take part in down here. Seemingly satisfied, she nods and opens the door for three laughing men. She exits the dungeon as they file in.
    When they spot me, one says, “Ah, Lola.” He rakes his gaze from my head to my unpainted toenails and invades my personal space with a kiss on my cheek. Smells like cigars and expensive cologne.
    This must be John. “Sir.” I hold my breath, lower my eyes, and smile like a good little submissive, even though I’m much more Dominant in my personal life. Switch, they call me. I’d probably take offense at that label if I had a personal life.
    John cups my chin, drawing my attention to his face. He looks about fifty. A bald spot peeks from the top of his gray crown. A bit out of shape. Pudgy. Can’t wait to see what’s under the clothes. Most likely a tired cock with a nasty bend and saggy balls. Bleh.
    “And you’re even lovelier in person than I expected.” He smacks my cheek harder than necessary, and I hold my flinch at bay. Shrugging out of his jacket, he turns to his friends. “Dan and Travis will be joining us tonight.”
    The other two guys take off their coats and loosen their ties. They’re probably both in their thirties. At least they’re decent looking. I won’t have to fantasize I’m fucking Chris Hemsworth