Chapter 5

"Beck Henning," the tall one with a jaw that could cut glass and eyes staring at me like a hopeful puppy says.

"That's Asher Banks," he says as he gestures to the one with a dark-brown high and tight fade that's so sharp I idly wonder if he visits a barbershop every morning.

"The snarly one behind me, who's very sorry for being a prick, is Hudson Craft. And I promise you, he's normally very friendly and funny to be around."

The one he calls Hudson steps from behind him, and it's funny to think Beck could have blocked him because Hudson's just as big and imposing as the other two.

They may say he's friendly and funny, but he's giving off nothing but intense Dom vibes that even the other two don't eclipse with their matching alpha-male energy. In all, the trio makes up the most impressive and oddly comfortable dynamic of leashed power I think I've ever experienced.

I'm no stranger to the D/s scene, though I've never had a Dom for more than a handful or so of scenes. Always within the parameters of a lifestyle club, where such give and take is negotiated, orchestrated, and comes with an end date.

Beck, Hudson, and Asher all give off the kind of dominant energy that can be overwhelming one-on-one. Watching the interplay between the three of them has the observer in me wondering how things organize and flow when they're all being Dommy at the same time.

At the idea of allowing them to pour out their Dom energy all over me, my long-repressed libido stretches like a cat woken from slumber on a sunny windowsill. The spike of arousal shimmering through me has the predictable effect that any strong emotion has over the last year. My breasts start to prickle, and my nipples contract while my milk lets down.

Tonight, I deliberately chose to wear a nursing tank with no bra, though it's one of my fancier silky feeling ones, in anticipation of being with men specifically hoping to be with a milkmaid like me. The cold breeze from the high-powered aircon only the ritziest buildings in Seattle bother with hardens my nipples to sharp points as the sodden fabric turns frigid.

Social convention urges me to cross my arms over the growing circles of leaking milk, announcing to the room that my milk has released, but I fight it. These men are in room 110 because they want to spend the night with a woman who will let them suckle the fresh milk from her body. Let them see what they're getting.

In the past, when I've played with Doms, I've enjoyed playing the role of brat in need of taming. It's been too long since I've felt a man's hands on me to play the coy tease. I want. Probably more than they do. These men are gorgeous, and though I don't stay up on local who's who gossip, even I recognize those last names. There's no way they're as touch starved as I am.

"Does it hurt?" Asher asks, his eyes glued to my chest and his hands clenching tight into fists before relaxing at his sides. I get the feeling he's fighting not to grab me.

"Not anymore." I shrug. "At first, it felt weird. But I'm used to it now."

"We should fill out the papers." Hudson's deep growl is enough my milk would be gushing if the cold fabric wasn't slowing the flow. There's something about commands spoken in such a low register that vibrates along my nerve endings and never fails to soak my panties.

The guys stride across the room to a table with a chairs placed at each side. Asher and Beck stand behind seats next to one another while Hudson pulls out a chair and waits for me to settle in it. He slides the cushioned seat under me as I sit, then all three of them follow. I'm used to the protocol of manners and behavioral codes of conduct in lifestyle clubs, but something tells me these guys behave as gentlemen in their daily lives, as well.

It's too bad the Club Sin contract includes NDAs, because Teag and Darius would die if they knew I was spending my night with the cream of Seattle's wealthiest crop. Then they'd lose their minds when they realized the hedonistic pleasures we're sitting around the table to discuss.

Each place setting has a small stack of papers in front of it, and a brief glance tells me there's a final affidavit of health and STI testing, a limits contract, and a copy of the NDA I signed. I watch them trade papers between each other and realize each stack must have the NDA from one of us.

It takes me only a moment to flick through the limits page. I'm no rookie to the standard. I know what my soft and hard limits are, and they're few in total. As an unruly adolescent, I overheard a clinician at the group home inform a teacher I have a sensory seeking disorder when he was rationalizing my need to feel extreme sensations and emotions. At the time, it explained my risky choices that frequently led to injuries. Now that I'm an adult, I understand it's about being pushed to feel something, anything, and I channel those needs into safer decisions.

I place the provided pen on top of the paper and wait to be told what to do next. As far as I'm concerned, I consented to scene with them when I agreed to the do over. As long as they can respect the few hard limits I indicated and get over how young they assume I am, I'll begin as I intend to carry on and give them my submission.

Hudson is the first to move, snaking my papers out from under the pen and flipping through them to the affidavit of health and STI testing. I bite my tongue to stifle the snarky comment that almost bursts out, guessing it's not my sexual health he's looking for. That sheet, like any other would, lists my age. I watch him do the mental math to count back to the year I listed.

"Twenty-seven?" he says with as much surprise as if I'd claimed to be eighty.

"As of last month, yup." I can't resist a little sass. But his eyes twinkle with amusement instead of angry Dom censure.

"Thank fuck," he says in that rumbly register that makes my panties stick even more wetly against my aching pussy.

I hear Asher and Beck talking quietly to one another, but Hudson's eyes haven't left mine since he verified I'm old enough to play. The way all three of them look at me turns me on, and though we have all night, the clock is ticking.

"So, daddy, where do you want me first?" My question is directed at Hudson, but all three men go silent. I feel like prey as their eyes focus on me like hunters spotting a doe in the tall grass.

"Please go stand by the sofa and remove all your clothing. Fold everything and place your belongings on the coffee table. Then wait for us with your hands behind your back and your eyes on the mantle." The command doesn't come from Hudson, who is still eye-fucking me as if he's a heartbeat away from throwing me onto the floor and pounding me to pieces.

Following Beck's directions will have me facing away from them as they complete whatever preparations they intend to make. I'll hear them but be unable to watch what they're doing. I look at Beck from under my lashes, wondering if a pout will convince him to let me the room as I wait.

I can tell by his smirk he knows I'll struggle to follow his directions. Not the getting naked part. Every bit of me is on board with that. But giving them my back and patiently waiting while they do who knows what behind me? That will already test my ability to obey.