“You’re welcome. Just don’t break my guard, please.”
“Not a problem.” She hadn’t felt like breaking a man in a while, at least not in the same way she had before.
And lightweight or not, the guard dog would be fun to play with.
* * * *
That night, Ben answered the thumping on the locked door and let his buddy Ghost into the Shadowlands. “Hey.”
“Got called in to relieve you. The boss says you want to play.” Vocal cord damage during an early battle had given Ghost a hoarse voice more suited to telling horror stories—and sounding horrified, as well. “Seriously?”
“Yep.” Ben grinned. “I figured it was time to liven up my life.”
“I guess it can’t be worse than getting shot at.” The gray-haired vet should know. As Special Forces, he’d been in and out of every active shithole over the last twenty years. Dressed in black jeans and a button-up shirt—Z’s minimum dress code—he crossed the room without a limp despite his leg prosthesis and tossed a crossword puzzle on the desk.
“It’s quiet tonight.” Ben tapped the membership list. “Mark off the members as they leave. If you’re not sure someone is stable—or if any combo of people feels hinky, call Z.”
“Roger that.”
A month ago Ben had cut back his hours, recommended Ghost, then given him the token training needed. The position required a miniscule amount of paperwork, a closed mouth, good fighting skills, and even more common sense. Z said if his security guard had to fight, he’d already failed.
Ghost settled into the chair and leaned back. “I do appreciate the job though. It’s interesting—and I was hell of bored.”
“I know that one.” Soldiers didn’t do retirement well.
Ben entered the club, feeling his anticipation rising. He’d been told to report to the dungeon in the back. As he crossed the main room, he gave it a careful study.
Wall sconces were dim in the shadowy room, except near the well-lit equipment along the walls and the center bar. To the left was a munchie area with food, tables, and chairs. On the right was the dance floor. Farther back, planters offered privacy for scattered sitting groups. BDSM scenes were held in roped-off sections, and more seating had been provided for the viewers.
Even this late, people were dancing, and the scene areas were busy.
He had to say, the Shadowlands was damned sinister this evening. Innocent-looking schoolgirls—and boys—were wandering about at the mercy of some fucking ugly creatures. The place looked like a movie set for “Slaughter at Metropolis High.”
He’d been inside a few times, but always to report in to Z about something. Never as a spectator. The clubroom looked and sounded different now that he was to be a…a participant.
Not that he hadn’t paid attention when he’d been in here. Nah, he knew what he’d volunteered for. Had even seen Mistress Anne working over some poor schmuck before.
Now he’d be that poor bastard. Once again, he was being an idiot—like when he’d voluntarily taken the SERE course. Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape—yeah, he’d accepted he was going to get hurt. At the time, the knowledge had been a lead weight of determination in his gut.
Tonight was much the same. One lead weight…along with a full-fledged cockstand. Mistress Anne would take one look at him and know precisely what he wanted.
Maybe. He wasn’t exactly sure himself.
On the way through the room, he passed various scenes. Flogging. One where a zombie Dom was dumping wax on a woman’s tits—although she did seem very onboard with the idea.
Not for him. Safe, sane, and consensual or not, he’d never be down with hurting a woman, which was why he’d known he wasn’t any Dom type. Why he’d confidently told Z he was “vanilla.”
He’d never given a thought to a gorgeous female hurting him.
Totally different mindset.
A scream made him stop. Tied to a post, little Uzuri was trying to evade a man caning her. “Red,” she shouted, but the dumb fuck was too caught up to understand she’d safeworded.
Ben walked right in and trapped the swinging cane in his palm. Hurt like a son of a bitch. He yanked the stick away. “She said red.” His voice came out threatening enough that the Dom paled and jerked back.
“Thanks, Ben.” Vance Buchanan slapped his shoulder and tugged the cane from his hand. Dressed as Frankenstein’s monster, he wore the gold-banded vest that marked a dungeon monitor.
“Not a problem.” Good to know that if he hadn’t been present, a DM would’ve rescued the pretty black submissive. Olivia slipped past him and tucked an arm around Uzuri, untying her with the other hand.