He hadn’t felt the full extent of his anger until he was home, in bed, and again hard as fucking rock.
What she’d done to him, how hard he’d come, how fucking beautiful she was, that clingy, dark-green wraparound dress she wore, tits that were high and full, hips curvy, a sweet round ass, all this on a slender, almost delicate frame, he couldn’t get it out of his head.
He’d needed to jack off but wouldn’t allow it to control him, trying to focus on what she’d done to cow him, telling himself that shit wasn’t right.
And not allowing himself to remember that he knew the blinds were up, but once she started in on him, he didn’t give a fuck about anything but what she was doing, what he was feeling, and how fucking hard she made him come.
He eventually fell asleep only to wake an hour later with a hard-on that was raging and wouldn’t be ignored.
So he gave her more, jacking himself violently, thinking about what she’d done, and more he wanted her to do, and coming nearly as hard as he did for her.
Doing it knowing that he didn’t even know where the woman lived, her last name, the kind of fucking car she drove, but he still stroked every tight stroke for her.
Fuck.
Barclay had warned him to go into the Honey the right way, the way they’d ease him in, even if it was Barclay who had told him in the first place, “Man, you do not belong in this scene. You need to get your ass into the Honey.”
That scene Barclay was talking about was the Bolt. The club Olly had just started to go to. A club that was nowhere near the straight-up cool of the Honey.
From the moment Barclay shared what the Honey was, Olly had been obsessed with it.
He closed his eyes and opened them, no longer seeing the Phoenix sun.
It was that box. That fucking box. That box he found when he was fifteen and his mom sent him up to her and his dad’s room to get something from the closet. Big and black and hidden, exposed only when he couldn’t find what she wanted him to get for her so he went searching. At his age, he could have no clue what curiosity would expose when he’d opened it.
The ropes. The handcuffs. The blindfold. The vibrators. And a huge fucking dildo.
Not a box owned by parents any kid should see.
He’d buried that, but not deep enough. It was impossible.
He’d been jacking off by then for a long time and the shit that filled his mind so he could come even before he found that box was extreme.
But that box unhinged something he could not rein in.
And being a weak twat, he’d become that guy. That loser asshole that hit the strip clubs. The one who paid for lap dances. The one who found and paid for peep shows.
None of it doing anything for him.
It had been when he’d been out with buds and they’d met other buds and Barclay was among them when things got clearer.
Barclay was open about being a third of a partner in a BDSM club, that club being the Bolt. He also had skin of steel since the guys tried to take strips off him constantly, giving him shit about it, banter that could turn nasty and did, a helluva lot.
Barclay was not only immune, he was also observant. He noticed Olly never said shit, didn’t participate in that, and often told the other guys to back off. This had the uncomfortable result of them turning that shit on him, accusing him of being in the closet, giving him crap about him liking to have his ass spanked.
Not knowing this was true.
Olly did not have skin of steel.
What he had, from a little kid, was a serious temper. A temper that fused fast, blew quick, and made words come out of his mouth that he might mean, but they could be communicated in a vastly different way. A temper his mother frequently told him, if he didn’t learn to control it, would get his ass in hot water.
But bottom line, he still didn’t like to be around assholes who acted like assholes and he was the kind of man who’d tell you you were being an asshole. They knew that, so it took a lot, but he didn’t let their crap stop him. And he did it only partially because he didn’t like to be around assholes, but also because, if he didn’t continue to get up in their shit like he normally would do (his short fuse was both fortunately and unfortunately legendary), it might make them wonder if they were on to something.
Barclay found a time and had a word and did it smart, getting Olly half-shitfaced before he did it.
Feeling a massive sense of relief, half-shitfaced, Olly gave it to him. Something he’d never given anybody.
A window into those dark places in his head.
But Barclay had been cool. Extending an invitation, a guest membership to his club, and sharing that in that world, no one said dick. It wasn’t an unwritten rule, it was an unbroken law. You feared your kink getting out, the person next to you at the club had that same fear, maybe even a bigger one with more to lose.
It took two months for Olly to accept the invitation.
Enter Whitney, who was seriously pretty with an amazing body, both of these meaning he’d let her work him once.
His first.
She’d sucked at it and was clearly into giving some serious pain without really bothering with the pleasure, so he never went back to her.
He almost gave up.
But then came Jenna, pretty, petite, sweet, and she’d orgasmed within ten minutes of having him in that room, doing it while she was shackling his foot to the floor.
He knew topping from below. In other words, attempting to control the scene even though you were the sub, using whatever way you could to do that, any way that was, in Olly’s opinion, being underhanded in the part the sub was meant to play in that world. He hadn’t jumped in like an idiot. He’d observed. Chatted with some of the other members. Got some of the lingo down.