Page 3 of Chance's Choice
I have to.
I mean, what would I even say? “Hey, I know I fucked up and I totally used your shitty relationship with your dad to my advantage, but could you forgive me so my tummy stops turning over? Oh, yeah, and I came out after I left, too.”
Yeah. I can just see that going over well.Not.
And that’s assuming Chance would even let me get more than three words out before he hung up on me, or slammed a door in my face, or…well, you get the picture.
I did my best friend dirty when we finished high school, and for almost twenty years I’ve been running from that simple truth.
Chance Baker has every right to hate me. I can still picture the hurt on his face from our last conversation. The betrayal and the heartache.
God, I was such a dick.
Let me make myself very clear: I don’t deserve his forgiveness.
But I want it. Fuck, do I want it.
I mightn’t have spoken to the man in almost two decades, but that hasn’t stopped me from caring about him.
Loving him, even.
And how fucked up is that?
More than I can tell you, considering the way we parted ways.
I’ve kept track of him over the years. It’s unhealthy, I know. But I’ve stalked his social media, tried to track his career and his relationships as best I could from afar. I told myself I just wanted to make sure that he was happy, but that’s a bald-faced lie. I miss him. I’ve always missed him.
And now I’m back in the city he lives in and the guilt. won’t. stop.
“Guess I know what I need tonight,” I sigh as I push myself up from the black leather couch in my beautiful, though kind of sterile, lounge room. My entire apartment can be described that way. It’s all black and chrome. Sleek, modern and minimalist. Emotionless as fuck.
A bit like me, most people might say. But then, most people don’t know the real me. They see ‘Professional Kade’: a ruthless marketing executive. I don’t have close friends. Haven’t allowed myself the luxury since I graduated high school.
I don’t deserve friends. Not after what I did to Chance.
What I do deserve, though, is a spanking.
And I know just where to get one.
* * *
The Grove comes highly recommended by my former BDSM club. It’s exclusive and high-end. They take the safety and privacy of their members very seriously, something I greatly appreciate. It’s situated just on the edges of the industrial part of the city, with very little else around. A great big warehouse with a discreet entrance and top of the line soundproofing throughout, you’d never know the wonders that are hidden inside.
When I get to the club, I sign in with the voluptuous maître d and enter through the double doors separating the bright white foyer from the pumping bass and strobe lighting of the nightclub floor. Twin corridors snake around the sides of the building and meet at the back, where the elevators and grand staircase await to lead me to the floors containing the themed playrooms.
I take the corridor to my left, making use of the locker rooms down this way, stripping out of my business attire and pulling on a pair of brightly colored training pants, a rainbow patterned crop top and a pair of bright pink booty shorts. After artfully ruffling my blonde hair, I stash my gym bag in a locker and make my way down the corridor, then climb the grand staircase to the next floor.
Here, it feels like a fancy hotel, with two parallel carpeted hallways lined with doors. I choose the hallway to my right and walk to the end, entering the Littles’ Playroom. It’s a massive space that runs the width of the warehouse, with high ceilings, couches for the caregivers, and a sunken play space in the center. Down the far end of the ‘room’, there’s even a bouncy castle large enough to hold a couple of adults comfortably.
A bouncy castle.
My former club had a foam pit, the one before that a ball pit and slide. But this one wins hands down, as far as I’m concerned.
As much as I want to go nuts on the bouncy castle, though, I cast my eyes around the room, checking wristbands, looking for an available Daddy. I’m agitated. Restless with simmering guilt. Ineedto be disciplined. It’s an itch beneath my skin: a feeling that will only grow until I’ve been appropriately punished for my poor behavior.
I haven’t felt this desperate a need for a spanking in years. I know it’s exacerbated by my return to my home city, and I should probably find a therapist to discuss my issues with if I can’t get it under control again. But for now, I’m going for the simple solution.
There aren’t a lot of people here tonight, which is hardly surprising considering it’s a Wednesday and it’s not a theme night. But, the benefit is that most people whoarehere are unattached and looking to play.
