silky-looking comforter. The comforter was partially folded down, revealing matching satin sheets beneath. One small end table displayed both a Tiffany lamp and a bowl full of condoms. On the other end table was a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses. Mounted on the wall opposite the bed was a large flat screen TV with a small collection of pornographic DVDs fanned out beneath it.
“Oooh . . . Uh, Champagne room?” Matt guessed.
“Close,” Christy conceded. “Party room.”
“Really? Seems a bit . . . dull.”
“Most clients don’t think so.”
Christy continued down the hallway to a door at the end. She stopped and gestured at it with a thumb.
“And if you wanted something a little more adventurous, we’d take you here,” she said.
“VIP room?” Matt asked halfheartedly.
“Yes, actually.” She finally grinned.
He returned the smile and opened the door. Christy didn’t stop him in time.
“Whoa!” Matt actually jumped back. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the man in the black vinyl gimp suit. He was standing spread-eagle in the center of the room, his wrists and ankles chained to a large wooden X-shaped cross. His back was to Matt, but he was trying to turn around in his chains to see what was going on. His suit had a matching mask with zippers over the eyes and some kind of ring holding his mouth open. Only one eye was unzipped, and it made him look like he was frozen in an exaggerated wink. His ass was exposed through a zippered flap, the pale moon recently decorated with red welts. Matt couldn’t have said for sure he was a man, except that there was a clamp currently forcing him into an impossible erection.
“Occupied! Didn’t you see the light?” It wasn’t the gimp. Someone else was in the room—a woman—but Matt’s eyes were still stuck in place.
“I was just about to point out the light.” Christy was reaching for the door.
A muffled voice came from the Gimp’s mask. “Who’s that?”
“Did I say you could speak?”
Matt moved his head to see who was talking, his eyeballs forced to follow. It was Erica. She looked furious, but half of that could have just been her outfit. It was vinyl, too, accented with pointy chrome bits, and ending in potentially deadly heeled boots. And there was that skull tattoo again, this time on full display. She wore a half jacket over her body suit, but somehow neither of them covered her breasts.
Matt was trying to take it all in when his attention was suddenly focused on the riding crop pointing at his nose.
“Out!” Erica seemed pretty insistent.
Christy quickly pulled him back into the hallway and closed the door behind them, leaning against it as if she expected Erica to come bursting out.
Matt looked up and saw a small, glowing, red lightbulb above the door. He had seen those in movies. Whenever a radio station was broadcasting live or on the air they had a red light turned on above the studio door. It seemed pretty obvious now.
“I—” Matt started. There was a meaty slap from the room, followed by a muffled grunt. “I thought we were closed,” Matt managed.
“We are.” Christy took a step away from the door, still keeping an eye on it. “Until you open up again, that is. But he’s a regular. And Erica doesn’t always follow the rules.” She turned toward the closed door and raised her voice. “Or lock the door.” She was answered by a metallic click—a bolt sliding into place.
Christy started leading him down the hall again.
“That seems kind of crazy. Locking yourself in with total strangers,” Matt said.
“Trust me,” said Christy. “She’s in charge when that door closes. Besides, Uncle Quent had a master key in case he had to rescue anybody . . . from her.”
Christy led him back to the foyer and stopped by the stairs. “You’ve already seen your office upstairs. That’s also where the real bedrooms are.”
“So now I’m officially a madam? Madame?” Matt asked, then quickly added,
“Oooh . . . Uh, Champagne room?” Matt guessed.
“Close,” Christy conceded. “Party room.”
“Really? Seems a bit . . . dull.”
“Most clients don’t think so.”
Christy continued down the hallway to a door at the end. She stopped and gestured at it with a thumb.
“And if you wanted something a little more adventurous, we’d take you here,” she said.
“VIP room?” Matt asked halfheartedly.
“Yes, actually.” She finally grinned.
He returned the smile and opened the door. Christy didn’t stop him in time.
“Whoa!” Matt actually jumped back. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the man in the black vinyl gimp suit. He was standing spread-eagle in the center of the room, his wrists and ankles chained to a large wooden X-shaped cross. His back was to Matt, but he was trying to turn around in his chains to see what was going on. His suit had a matching mask with zippers over the eyes and some kind of ring holding his mouth open. Only one eye was unzipped, and it made him look like he was frozen in an exaggerated wink. His ass was exposed through a zippered flap, the pale moon recently decorated with red welts. Matt couldn’t have said for sure he was a man, except that there was a clamp currently forcing him into an impossible erection.
“Occupied! Didn’t you see the light?” It wasn’t the gimp. Someone else was in the room—a woman—but Matt’s eyes were still stuck in place.
“I was just about to point out the light.” Christy was reaching for the door.
A muffled voice came from the Gimp’s mask. “Who’s that?”
“Did I say you could speak?”
Matt moved his head to see who was talking, his eyeballs forced to follow. It was Erica. She looked furious, but half of that could have just been her outfit. It was vinyl, too, accented with pointy chrome bits, and ending in potentially deadly heeled boots. And there was that skull tattoo again, this time on full display. She wore a half jacket over her body suit, but somehow neither of them covered her breasts.
Matt was trying to take it all in when his attention was suddenly focused on the riding crop pointing at his nose.
“Out!” Erica seemed pretty insistent.
Christy quickly pulled him back into the hallway and closed the door behind them, leaning against it as if she expected Erica to come bursting out.
Matt looked up and saw a small, glowing, red lightbulb above the door. He had seen those in movies. Whenever a radio station was broadcasting live or on the air they had a red light turned on above the studio door. It seemed pretty obvious now.
“I—” Matt started. There was a meaty slap from the room, followed by a muffled grunt. “I thought we were closed,” Matt managed.
“We are.” Christy took a step away from the door, still keeping an eye on it. “Until you open up again, that is. But he’s a regular. And Erica doesn’t always follow the rules.” She turned toward the closed door and raised her voice. “Or lock the door.” She was answered by a metallic click—a bolt sliding into place.
Christy started leading him down the hall again.
“That seems kind of crazy. Locking yourself in with total strangers,” Matt said.
“Trust me,” said Christy. “She’s in charge when that door closes. Besides, Uncle Quent had a master key in case he had to rescue anybody . . . from her.”
Christy led him back to the foyer and stopped by the stairs. “You’ve already seen your office upstairs. That’s also where the real bedrooms are.”
“So now I’m officially a madam? Madame?” Matt asked, then quickly added,
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