Baby for My Brother's Friend Read online

  Halfway through reading an important email, I realize Magda’s still standing in my doorway. I give her a quizzical look.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wright. I was instructed to insist that you go home,” she says. “Before you say anything, I know this is not my place, but you know I won’t lie. God’s always watching, Mr. Wright.

  “If you tell me to leave, I will. But if you stay anyway, and your mother calls me tomorrow to ask, I’ll have to tell her the truth. I can ignore her calls, of course, but then she’d know that I’m avoiding her, and then she’d know the truth.

  “Besides, I really think you should go home. It’s not healthy for you to always be sitting there at your desk. You should go out, meet some friends, maybe even a girlfriend.” Magda smiles an innocent smile that I can’t be angry at.

  Oh, Magda. So sweet and yet so long-winded. What am I going to do with you?

  “Remind me why I hired you again,” I say, rubbing my temple.

  What came over the HR department, that they hired the only secretary in America who won’t lie for her boss?

  But then again, I’ve been keeping her on my staff for four years even though I already know this particular flaw of hers, so I guess it’s my fault, too.

  “Because I’m good at my job.” She smiles. “Now, do you want me to leave you alone?”

  I’ve got to admit, Magda’s the best secretary I’ve ever had—and that’s saying something, considering she also won’t tell callers I’m not in my office when I actually am.

  She just tells them the truth and somehow they accept it without complaints. Her polite and no-nonsense attitude just works on people.

  “No, actually. Could you just wait there for a while? I’ll finish replying to this email, and then I’ll drive you home. How does that sound?” I ask.

  “Oh, that’s very nice of you, Mr. Wright, but you don’t have to do that.”

  “You’re not taking the bus tonight,” I insist. “Not with the way it’s raining outside.”

  Magda looks past my shoulder, beyond the wall of glass panels behind me. Normally, I can see the city skyline clearly. Right now, the sky’s angry and dark as it pelts fat bullets of rain on the building.

  “Let me drive you home,” I repeat.

  “Okay, Mr. Wright, if you insist. Thank you very much.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wright,” Magda says for the forty-seventh time before she nods and opens the passenger door.

  I briefly hear the sound of rain pounding the ground until Magda shuts the door again. I give her a quick wave and drive away.

  As my car glides down city streets, my mind wanders to my work.

  I was planning on finalizing the material for next week’s presentation tonight, but that’ll have to wait until tomorrow now, unless I download the files from the cloud and continue working on it on my laptop at home.

  But Jesus, I’m not some teenager sneaking around doing something illicit behind my mom’s back.

  I’m an adult, and I’m well aware that I’ve been working too much. And when I’m not working, I’m thinking about working. I don’t have to ask a doctor to know that’s not healthy.

  This is a big city and I have money. There has to be something I can do . . .

  Should I go to the . . . Uh, probably not. If I go there, I’ll only be replacing one unhealthy obsession with another one.

  Should I call someone up, maybe?

  I’ve been so busy with work that I don’t have time to maintain real friendships. I meet people at work, of course, but that’s just business. I only see those people because I have to. They’re completely replaceable.

  Except maybe Magda. I don’t know. She’s grown on me.

  An armchair psychologist would probably say it’s because I spent most of my childhood with my mom, so now having a mother figure at work comforts me, but that’s not it. It’s probably just because she’s the person I see the most.

  Obviously, with my schedule, I also don’t have time for a relationship either. I know some people make it work, but it just seems like more hassle than it’s worth.

  Sometimes, though, I visit this club—I used to, anyway. It’s called The Succubus.

  Supposedly, it’s a place of dark pleasures where lust reigns and demons suck your soul. In reality, it’s a kinky sex club. But seriously, I always feel empty when I leave that place. Maybe there are demons there, after all.

  Ever since my first visit, The Succubus has been the only thing that could pique my interest.

  I’m not trying to brag, but I have women throwing themselves at me if I so much as step out of my office to get lunch. At the same time, I’ve been having an embarrassingly long dry spell.

  Nice, normal girls just don’t interest me. I’ve tasted something darker, and now vanilla doesn’t do it anymore.

  I haven’t visited The Succubus in a long time because I was worried about it changing me.

  But it’s been a long time—more than a year. Surely, the fact that I’ve managed to stay away for so long means that I’ve got this under control.

  As I turn into the dark, quiet parking lot, I wonder if I’m just making up shit excuses to indulge in an unhealthy habit.

  Because regardless of the morality of it, or the healthiness of it, I’m already here, in the industrial area where the warehouse that houses The Succubus is located.

  Katie

  What have you gotten yourself into this time? I ask myself.

  I gulp down my anxiety.

  I’m not a country bumpkin by anyone’s standards. I’m a city girl, through and through. I’ve seen it all, and I’ve done it all.

  Or so I thought.

  As the bouncer unhooks the red rope to let us in, I realize I didn’t know anything.

  I’ve done all kinds of waitressing jobs before and I even wore lingerie for some of them, so I thought this was going to be, more or less, the same.

  I mean, maybe I was naïve, but Monica did call it waitressing. I don’t know how accurate that is, though.

  The lobby of the restricted, members-only club is narrow. It’s dark, except for a display area where three girls kneel, wearing nothing but gold, shiny body paint.

  The bright spotlight and the harsh shadows it casts make the girls appear unreal, like they’re just a figment of my imagination, like my hand would only touch air if I tried to reach out to them.

  The girls fold their legs and sit on their feet. That can’t be a comfortable position to hold for long. I wonder how much they’re being paid or if they’re being paid at all.

  According to Monica, the girl who introduced me to this job, some people would happily work here for free because they enjoy it.

  I don’t get it.

  How can that be enjoyable?

  Aside from the numbness that must have taken over those girls’ legs, they’re also bound by thick, strong ropes with a rough texture that must be itchy on the skin.

  The girls’ hands are restrained by ropes, too, in such a way that one girl’s covering her eyes, while another girl’s covering her ears, and the last girl’s covering her mouth. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

  Except that’s highly ironic, considering their presence alone is a sign of the outrageously decadent depravation that goes on inside the club.

  The Succubus, this club’s called. I’ve heard the name spoken in hushed whispers over the years, but I used to think this place was just urban legend.

  That’s why, when Monica offered me the job, I laughed at first until I realized she was serious.

  She said her fashion boutique was just a side gig, and her real job was handling recruitment for The Succubus. That was when I realized how she could afford her high-flying lifestyle when her boutique was always empty.

  She offered me five-thousand dollars for one night’s work, and I said yes. But truth be told, I was sold as soon as she mentioned the club’s name.

  And that’s why I’m here tonight, walking into The Succubus with a bunch of other waitre
sses.

  Just like the lobby, the main area of the club is dark. Men in sharp business suits sit in plushy chairs that look like the seats in the cinema.

  Even though there are plenty of empty chairs, most of the girls aren’t in them. Instead, they’re kneeling on the floor by their masters’ feet.

  Yes, The Succubus is a BDSM club. Almost anything goes here.

  The women are in all states of undress—some are even completely naked, except for the collars around their necks.

  I see a handful of women wearing dresses that wouldn’t look out of place in a normal club. They stick out like a sore thumb here.

  These women look uncomfortable; scared, even. They keep glancing around nervously while secretly peeking at the explicit sexual acts being done out in the open, right in front of them.

  In my trench coat, I’m just as overdressed as they are, and I’m just as scared as they are—maybe even more.

  Most of the men are facing the stage where three women are being tied up with ropes, chains, and cuffs. Still, some turn their heads as the waitresses—including me—walk past, knowing that soon we’re going to be on the floor, entertaining them.

  I had my reservations about taking this job. I mean, waitressing in my underwear is one thing, but getting naked and on my knees while sucking some old businessman’s cock is another thing entirely.

  But, contrary to the rumors that are going around, The Succubus is not an evil institution. It’s not even dangerous. Most importantly, it doesn’t entrap young women into a miserable existence of servitude.

  The women who wear collars and are doing the raunchiest things in this room came with their masters. In other words, they could be those men’s wives, girlfriends, or even friends with benefits.

  What I’m trying to say is, it’s all completely consensual, and as far as the club knows, no money changes hands between these couples.

  What I’m going to be doing tonight is thoroughly different. I’m getting paid to do this, but I’m not taking anybody’s cock tonight—that would be prostitution, which is illegal.

  Oh, and I also don’t know any of these men. That’s kind of a big reason why I’m not just going to bend over for them.

  All I’ve been told about these men is they’re wealthy and influential. Apparently, it costs a fortune to gain and maintain membership to The Succubus. On top of that, they need to have the right connections and pass a slew of verification checks. They could be politicians, actors, or CEOs.

  I’m curious what these men look like, and I wonder if there’s anyone I’d recognize by sight. But with the darkness and the masks that they wear, it’s almost impossible to find out.

  Yet, the darkness doesn’t stop them from staring at us. I can feel their hot gazes on me, heating up my insides with fear and excitement.

  I don’t even know what any of these men look like, but sexual energy permeates the air here. I can’t help but breathe it in and become a part of it.

  This is going to be an interesting night . . .

  “So in conclusion, you’re going to be agreeable and obedient. Supplicant, even,” says Kendra, the manager of the waitresses. “Any questions?”

  All the girls who came in with me are gathered around Kendra’s desk in the back room. Everyone’s slipped out of their day clothes and is wearing something more sultry.

  Looking around the room, I see high heels, red lips, smoky eyes, and little bits of lace on little bits of fabric.

  A waitress in The Succubus doesn’t have a uniform, but she does have to look the part of someone who works in a sexy, kinky club.

  In practice, most of us are wearing some kind of lingerie. If a girl’s ‘inappropriately dressed’ (a term that, interestingly, means the opposite of what it means in the real world), Kendra will approach her and tell her how to fix her wardrobe.

  A pretty blonde girl lifts her hand. She’s wearing cute, pink, cotton underwear. I wonder if she has a Daddy fetish. As if to confirm my suspicion, in a high voice, she asks, “Are we allowed to say no?”

  “Of course. Like I said before, we do have safe words,” Kendra says. “All our club members know to stop everything if you say ‘red.’ You can also say ‘yellow’ if you need to take a short break. Any more questions?”

  “How far do we go . . . I mean, with those men . . . I mean . . . My friend told me there’s no sex involved,” a different girl asks, stammering from nervousness. Like about eighty percent of the room, including me, she’s wearing black lace bra-and-panties set. (It’s the easiest way to look classy in cheap underwear. Not all of us want to buy lingerie specifically for this job.)

  “Aww . . . It’s cute how you can’t even say it. Some men are really into that,” Kendra says, appraising the girl who asked the question with her keen eyes. “Your friend was wrong. There may be sex involved.”

  Murmurs fill the room as girls whisper to each other in low voices.

  Kendra smiles, satisfied by the level of chaos her statement has caused. “By that, I mean we’re not going to make you have sex with anybody, but we’re not going to stop you either.

  “There’s a lot of sexy vibes in the air out there,” Kendra continues. “I know. I’ve been there. I worked as a waitress here when I was younger. But now I’m old and wrinkled, and it’s your time to shine.”

  “What are you talking about, Kendra?” a girl asks. “You’re gorgeous.”

  A chorus of ass-kissers agree with the first girl.

  “Okay, stop it,” Kendra says, giggling, clearly happy to hear all the compliments she’s fished for. “Anyway, what I’m saying is, it’s easy to get carried away out there. Our members are powerful men, and I don’t know about you, but power is sexy to me.

  “If you find yourself in a sexy situation, feel free to let go. Do whatever you like. I’ll just say it: you can take a sex break any time you want, with any patron you like, as long as they want you, too.

  “So if there’s someone who catches your eye . . . We’re not going to stop you from giving him a good time and making him want to come back.” Kendra smiles.

  “Are we allowed to socialize with the men, like, outside the club?” asks a girl wearing Playboy bunny ears on her head.

  “Of course,” Kendra says. “You’re not slaves. The slave thing is just role play. You’re free. You can socialize with anyone you want. You can meet them outside. We don’t care, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your work.”

  Every word Kendra says helps calm my nerves. I was worried about what to expect. Since this is an exclusive, secret club, it’s not like I can just Google it. But The Succubus seems to take safety seriously.

  Even though it looks like the land of the lawless outside, there’s actually a bunch of rules that governs every interaction here. If anybody breaks a rule, the beefy security guys are always around to fix the situation.

  All of these safeguards make me feel better about my prospects here. I don’t have to worry about some old, greasy creep touching me without permission.

  In a lot of ways, the workplace conditions here are better than bars and lounges that hire lingerie waitresses. Those places are happy to turn a blind eye to harassment by creepy customers who offer the girls money to go back with them to their dingy hotel rooms.

  On the other hand, The Succubus recognizes that harassment happens and puts safety measures in place. Men who repeatedly break the rules may be banned for life by the club.

  Still, as I step back into the big, cavernous hall, my heart thumps in my chest.

  I stand and watch, mesmerized as the three girls on the stage are locked up in sturdy metal cages with their faces and asses jutting out.

  A brawny man, wearing a mask, a plain black shirt, and a pair of dark jeans, circles the cages. He seems to be in charge. He’s the Dom—or dominant male—as Kendra told us during the short briefing.

  The Dom on stage runs his hands over the bits of the girls’ skin that stick out of the bars, making them audibly gasp and moan.


  There’s something about the way they interact that makes my insides tingle. The absolute power that the man wields and the utter vulnerability of the women in the cages, locked up, restrained, and helpless.

  The juxtaposition puts the masculine and the feminine in stark contrast to each other in the most sensual way.

  My breathing grows heavy, and I’m not hypocritical enough to say that it’s because I’m scared.

  This is bad.

  Because while The Succubus is going to protect me from pushy creeps and possible stalkers, they won’t protect me from myself. The lack of clear boundaries scares me, but in a way, it also thrills me.

  The possibility of meeting a dominant, powerful stranger stirs my stomach with both fear and anticipation.

  I’ve never had any experience with BDSM beyond reading about it in romance novels. Maybe this is the right time to explore it in a safe environment.

  Ultra-wealthy people pay a fortune for the privilege to access The Succubus. While I’m here, shouldn’t I enjoy myself?

  At the same time, I’ve always regarded my side gigs as just that—side gigs. You know, so I can save up and create some security for my future. There’s a good chance I’ll never have a family and only have myself to rely on, so building a nest egg is one of the few things I take seriously in life.

  But if I have sex with a stranger—who may be wearing a mask—while I’m on the job, what does that make me?

  I mean, I don’t have a rigid view on morality, but I’d still essentially be doing it (1) with a stranger, and (2) as an optional part of my job.

  So, not to get too pedantic and all, but wouldn’t that make me . . . a sex worker?

  My skin crawls at the thought. I know some people do it and they’re happy with their choices—good for them. But I don’t know if I can make peace with the thought that I’ve been a sex worker at some point in my life.

  Kendra was right. The atmosphere in this place is highly sexual. The air sizzles with tension and unspoken desire.

  Multiple men are looking in my direction. I can’t even see their faces, but I can sense their hunger—their masks can’t hide that.