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Stepping in on the other side of the velvet rope at The Oh! Club, Natasha feels a little like Persephone stepping foot into the Underworld for the first time. Like she's been transported into another world entirely.
She'd done her due diligence before she'd decided to come, of course. She's always prided herself on being prepared. On knowing things. And while she's never been to a proper BDSM club, the idea of strictly laid out rules and regulations where everyone knows their place appeals to her, so she'd gathered intel (discreetly, of course) until a picture formed of what she could expect. And every source had pointed to The Oh! Club as the place to be in the area where like-minded people can get their kink on, and anything you might be into is properly negotiated beforehand.
And it's not like she's got much else to do until she starts API.
Since graduating from the Academy and reporting to Pensacola for A Pool, she's been in this weird liminal state: a Naval officer in name only, but with no actual duties beyond checking in every morning for the daily roster and taking the occasional watch, and the lack of clear purpose is killing her. Everyone else she knows is taking advantage of the downtime — they're all hanging out at the beach and getting tans and day drinking and hooking up with each other and the locals, and generally acting like they're all on an extended, paid Spring Break.
But Natasha — well, she's always been ambitious. And she is beyond ready to show everyone exactly what she's made of. She's done all the online reading, has already started going through the NATOPS and wing-standard operating procedures and flight training instructions — because it never hurts to get a head start — and she's champing at the bit to start classes and master the Cessna 172 for her first solo flight. She knows she's smart, knows she's dedicated, and she damn well knows she's got what it takes to fly with the best and even get to TOPGUN one day, and win the trophy. The sky is literally the limit.
Once she can finally fucking start flight school.
In the meantime, she'd been going out of her mind without an outlet to channel all of her pent-up energy. It had been easy back at Annapolis to find a willing boy or two to bend to her will. The other cadets had been so eager to please, so indoctrinated in obeying orders that all it had taken was a couple of sharply said words and a pointedly lifted brow, and she'd had every guy she'd set her eyes on falling to their knees, so very willing and eager to give her whatever she wanted. But the last year at the Academy had taken all of her concentration and time, and she hadn't allowed herself to toy with anyone (sex yes, she had a healthy appetite after all, but she'd kept things strictly vanilla) and now she is raring to let her hair down and let loose.
So she struts into the club dressed to kill — wearing a pink sparkly triangle top that exposes her back and makes her tits look fantastic, tight leather pants that make her ass pop, and fuck-me red heels that make her legs look endless — eager to see and be seen. And falls instantly and irrevocably in love.
There are so many people inside, all in various shades of undress. Some of the subs are wearing full leather hoods, while others are completely naked except for thick collars around their necks. And their mistresses and masters are in full gear or fishnet body stockings or even wearing three-piece suits, with their toys or slaves crawling behind them or on their knees or — even more intriguing — even allowing themselves to be used as tables or as chairs. There are women and men either dancing or posing in cages suspended above the dance floor, and the performers on the stages are using equipment she doesn't know the names of, the industrial beat of the music mixing with the equally alluring rhythm of leather striking flesh, as the sound of moans and the scents of sin and sex all fill the air. It's intoxicating; she feels like she's in a candy store, greedy to taste the forbidden fruit on her tongue and experience all the illicit pleasures the club has to offer —
— and then she sees HIM from across the crowded room, and all of the noise and chaos around her ceases to exist.
He's standing alone, dark-haired and well-built, dressed simply in thigh-hugging jeans and a tight black t-shirt and work boots; his posture is perfect, his jawline etched in stone. He's older, even though he wears it very well, and has the aura of a man who knows exactly how to wield that experience to its best and highest use. His piercing gaze sweeps across the stages and the dance floor, taking in everything happening around him with equal curiosity and a bone-deep knowledge that's so palpable Natasha can taste it.
He is the single most beautiful and alluring man she's ever seen in her life. She's so wet with want she's shaking, and she doesn't even know his name or the color of his eyes or the sound of his voice. Not that it matters. She's wholly enraptured, her blood singing a refrain as old as time — mine, his, want.
He's definitely not some boy toy she can bend to her will with a crook of her finger, either. No, there's a quiet aura of command in the confidently assured way he moves — she can sense the power radiating from him even from where she's standing. This is someone used to giving orders. Someone used to having them obeyed. And that is so not her style, and not at all why she's here tonight.
But, goddamn if there's not something about him — above and beyond the Fuckable with a Capital F factor — that calls out to her like a homing beacon. Here is a man who knows what he's doing, and knows exactly what he wants.
If she's Persephone, then she has found her Hades. She's found her dark God, beckoning her into the shadows, promising all of the corrupt beauty and seductive pleasures, promising every temptation and sin, if she would only just take his hand.
And just like Persephone, she is more than willing to let herself be hauled off into his lair.
***
She doesn't approach him right away.
That would be too obvious and far too needy, and she's got her pride. So she takes another glance to lock the look of him into her brain, and then makes her way to the bar for a drink. Once she's situated, she gives herself permission to wander around the room, to take in all of the sights and sounds and smells, to observe and catalog all of the scenes and interactions going on around her, all the while politely demurring when she's approached for play. She can't get over how open and free everyone is, how much it looks like all of the patrons are having a great time, even the ones on the stages getting whipped or spanked or clamped or tied in a series of complicated ropes.
(And if she keeps half an eye on her mystery man the entire time, just to make sure he hasn't disappeared or been approached by anyone else, that's her business.)
She admires the performers in the cages above the floor, dances a little herself to bleed out some of the energy bubbling over inside her, and watches a Domme take a riding crop to her sub, noting the coiled strength in her arm and wrist, and wondering where she'd learned how to master that particular art. Where she'd honed the skill to make her sub hurt, but not injure him.
Natasha knows she's got a lot to learn. And knows just who she wants to teach her.
It's almost an hour later before she makes her move — her Hades is standing off to the side of the stage and watching the latest demonstration. There's an almost empty bottle of beer dangling between those strong-looking fingers. And, well, she may not be a pilot yet, but she knows the perfect time to shoot her shot when she sees it.
She saunters over, clocks the second he notices her — and the way his appreciative once-over doesn't sink into leering — and stops when she gets to his side. Now that she's closer, she can see that his eyes are the warmest shade of green she's ever seen on a person and that the laugh lines around his mouth are generous and deep. The throbbing between her legs echoes the throbbing in her blood.
But she keeps her cool and taps his bottle with a fingernail painted the exact same shade as her heels. "Can I buy you a refill?"
His lips, full and pink and inviting, turn up at the corners. "Depends on what it'll cost me after," he replies, his deep voice like the rough side of velvet, sending shivers down her spine. Already, she wonders what it would sound like giving orders during a scene. And what it would sound like when he's at the mercy of his baser instincts and lost in pleasure.
She allows her own smile to form. "I just want a bit of your time, if you're amenable."
"Amenable," he repeats, nodding to himself as he tosses his bottle in the nearby trashcan. "I like it. My name's Pete."
"Natasha."
"It's a pleasure to meet you." He nods his head towards the stage. "Enjoying the show?"
She laughs, at ease. She has a feeling he'd done it on purpose. "Very much. It's been enlightening so far," she tells him, knowing she sounds young and inexperienced, but taking a gamble that he won't fault her for it. That her honesty will intrigue, rather than repel.
That gorgeous smile of his widens, almost like he can sense her thoughts. "You should have seen me and my partner the first time we came to a club like this. Pretty sure our jaws were on the floor all night."
"Your partner?" she asks, careful to keep her voice light. To not let the disappointment bleed through into her tone. Of course a man like him would already be taken. Her Hades already has his consort.
His sharp, knowing look tells her she hadn't done a good enough job of concealing her dismay. "Oh don't worry, you're not stepping on any toes," he says, leaning in to be heard over the music. "The two of us have...an agreement."
Her breath hitches when she inhales — he smells incredible. Like spice and sin and freedom. "An agreement?" she repeats.
"In our line of work, we're away from each other more often than not. As long as we keep the other one informed, we're both free to pursue...whatever pleasures we desire," he finishes, and reaches out a hand, stopping a hairsbreadth from her cheek. "May I?"
She nods, wordless, her lips parting in a soundless oh when he gently drags the backs of his fingers along her cheek and then down her neck. She's trembling, swaying forward, already undone just from that simple touch.
"Gorgeous," he pronounces, and splays his hand along the hollow of her throat, his thumb dragging deliciously along her skin until he presses, firm, right against her windpipe.
Her next inhale is a wheeze; she can feel her nipples harden as her pulse flutters. But she doesn't drop her gaze and she doesn't lower her chin as he presses deeper, then eases, allowing her to suck in a lungful of air.
"I'm not here for..." She licks parched lips and tries again. "I didn't come here tonight to...submit...to anyone."
She could, though. In fact, she can see how easily she could — but only for him. But she also knows, with an instinct she can't define, that he's never going to ask her to do it. He's made it clear that he'll wait for her to come to him, if and when she's ready.
(It won't take her long, and she's honest with herself enough to know it. She wants everything he has to offer.)
"I know you didn't," he gently replies, with a small smile that calms and inflames in equal measure. His hand doesn't move; his thumb stays a warm, welcoming, pressing weight against her throat. "So tell me why you are here. And why you approached me."
The words come out in a rush. "I want you to teach me."
Those intense green eyes grow quizzical. "Teach you?"
"What you know." She leans, ever so slightly, into his hold. Leans into the dizzying rush of passion racing through her blood, the way she both wants to sink to her knees and rub against his leg like a cat and to stand by his side as an equal, the queen to his king. "I want you to teach me how to do what you're doing right now — how to make someone you just met melt under your touch."
He finally moves to cup her cheek. His palm is callused and rough, but he cradles her so gently, like she's made of the finest silk. Like touching her is a privilege he doesn't take lightly. "You want to be my apprentice."
She re-wets dry, aching lips. "Yes," she whispers, answering his unasked question just as clearly.
He makes a guttural noise and shifts, his body so close to hers she can practically feel the heat of him, even through their clothes. "Do you know your start date yet for API?"
"In three months." Then she widens her eyes. "How did you know I was waiting to start flight school?"
"Oh, you've got future fighter pilot written all over you, Natasha," he says, grinning now, movie-star-wide and just as arrogant. "And I can already tell you're going to be great."
"Can you?"
"Without a doubt." He gently urges her forward until she's plastered completely against his body. The promise of the way he'd filled out his shirt hadn't lied — he's rock-solid, and burning so hot she wonders how his skin isn't on fire. How hers isn't. "I'll make you a deal. For the next three months, I'll teach you everything you want to know. But you have to do something for me."
"Tell me how you know I'm a pilot first," she counters, and puts her hands on him for the first time. Just her hands on his shoulders, but the touch grounds her in a way she doesn't want to examine too closely.
The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. She wants to trace each one with her tongue. "Takes one to know one."
Oh.
"You're a — " She cuts off, laughing a little under her breath. "Of course you're a pilot, I should have seen it. Can I ask you what your callsign is?"
She can't wait to get her own. To be a true Naval aviator, in every sense of the word.
He shakes his head. "I'll tell you when you start API, but not until then."
"And what is it you want in return?" she asks, moving one hand to toy with the hairs on his nape. She's soaking wet, her cunt throbbing under her leather pants; already she knows he's going to make her scream. (But she's planning on making him work for every single one of them.)
"For the next three months, I want you to relax," he tells her, and leans in, his breath soft against her lips.
"Relax?" she repeats, holding herself completely still to keep from surging forward and begging him to take her, right here and now, for everyone to watch.
"Yes, relax." He drops one hand to the small of her back, splaying it across bare skin, the move casually possessive and yet somehow reverent. "I can tell you're ambitious and motivated, but don't give the Navy too much of yourself right away. Enjoy the downtime. Enjoy the anticipation of what's to come." He dips his head, his lips now barely touching hers, the warmth of them a tease. "Deal?" he asks, his voice a murmur, his bargain impossible to resist.
Three months. Not nearly long enough for all she wants from him, but — like Persephone — she'll take the time she's been given and use it to her advantage. It goes against her very nature to allow anyone else an edge, but she's got a feeling that Pete is going to keep her too occupied to care much about anything else.
"Deal," she says, sealing the contract, and finally closing the distance between them, the kiss as sweet as a pomegranate seed, as ephemeral as a promise, and as strong as an iron chain.
***