Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
She makes it sound like I’m going in with blow-up dolls as balloon décor for an informational session on making a woman scream in ecstasy with first-hand demonstrations. Which I’m not doing . . . the blow-up dolls or the demos. Well, not first-hand ones at least, but a frame-by-frame dissection of skill in a pre-selected video is still an option. I think.
“I won’t,” I promise, holding out my pinkie finger. She wraps hers around mine, and we lift and lower them three times, silently vowing to hold the pinkie promise in the utmost esteem. “You ready to get to work?” I ask her, and she nods absently. I’ve already lost her to Alphena and whatever ideas she’s cooking up in that mind of hers.
“Hey, Alexa, set an alarm for forty-five minutes.”
“Alarm set for three-oh-two p.m.”
“Let’s go, girl. On your mark, get set, git it!” I tell Luna as Alexa starts our timer. Luna gave me a lot to think about, but first, I have to do an outline for this class. If I get up there and stutter and stammer with no real gameplan, they are going to eat me alive. And not in a good cunnilingus sort of way, but rather, an uncomfortable, awkward session of Q-and-As that’ll put my practice therapy rounds to shame.
I can hear them now . . .
“What’s your O-face look like?”
“How can I get a girl to deepthroat me without puking all over my dick?”
“If she’s really tight, can she break my penis?”
Plus basically every awful definition from Urban Dictionary that has to do with sex. Donkey show? Dirty Sanchez? Superman?
And I do not want that. So I get to work, side by side, with Luna drawing her superhero alter-ego on her tablet and me typing on my laptop to create a class that’ll be informative, helpful, and not involve me saying filthy things to a room full of guys who’d rather fuck with me than fuck me but would be happy to go either way.
CHAPTER 15
SAMANTHA
Walking into the Clubhouse for class, I can’t help the butterflies in my stomach. Being the only woman here makes me feel like I stand out, in a target acquired sort of way. This must be what Daniel felt like when he was thrown into the lion’s den. Get it . . . the mascot is a lion?
Even the tiny inner joke with myself doesn’t ease my nerves, and I repeat my mental checklist once more, knowing that nothing’s changed since I did it the last ten times.
I’m dressed conservatively, in a blue pantsuit, with my hair pulled up into a bun that’s not messy, but not librarian tight, either. Everything’s covered and no fantasy spank bank material there. My makeup? Light and again, toned down. No cum-swatter lashes or suck-me red lipstick.
It’s ridiculous that these things are even necessary, but I want to look like I’m here for business and to preemptively not give any of these man-children the wrong idea.
And then maybe I can learn something from this class time too.
These men are going to grow into my future clients, their partners sitting at their side wondering why he’s stuck on face down-ass up as the only acceptable sexual position. But if I can reach them now, I can help change that future so that there’s a better outcome for all.
Or at least that’s my hope. And my job.
The entrance to the Clubhouse is welcoming, or it would be if my stomach wasn’t flip-flopping like crazy.
Oh, shit! Is there even a women’s restroom here? I didn’t see one when Chance and I did our alarm-check, so maybe there’s not one?
The idea stops me in my tracks, right outside the double doors, though I shift from one heeled foot to the other, considering my options. Logic and reason remind me a moment later that it’s required by code, so I’m probably okay there. Not that I want to pee in a building full of guys, anyway. The fear of being that vulnerable means I probably couldn’t relax my bladder enough, anyway.
I shake my head to rattle the random thoughts loose and focus on my mission. Opening the door, I’m hit with a faint blast of cool air and a clean, woodsy scent. It thankfully doesn’t smell like sweaty balls and unshowered assholes.
Chance is waiting for me, perched on the lightly stained oak reception desk with his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and his arms laced over his chest. He’s dressed in a stunning suit, a three-piece blue one that makes his eyes pop, with a burnt orange patterned tie that makes him look powerful but fashionable.
“Thought you were gonna bail,” he teases straight-faced, and I realize that he could see me freaking out on the other side of the front doors.