How to Discipline Your Vampire(5)

            “GET OUT!”

            I stomped my apparently pathetic two-inch heels into the kitchen and scribbled his entry onto a note card, poking through the paper in three places. I put an asterisk at the bottom with a note regarding freshness of breath as a requirement for future submissives.

            I felt the immediate need to text Erin, but restrained myself. Which is funny, I thought, because I’m used to restraining others.

            I slumped down at my computer and turned it on. Lots of my buddies in the local BDSM community blogged, so I figured I’d peruse some of their websites and maybe find a man that way.

            Hey, I had two strikes against me now. Any port in a storm.

            Granted, the three-strike rule is self-imposed. I had enough of crappy subs and historically inaccurate scenes. I wanted the real fucking deal, but if I didn’t get it soon, I’d just give up and become a hermit. Meaning I’d date regular guys.

            Bleh!

            The keys clicked wildly as I explored the blogosphere, which—by the way—was the stupidest term ever. There really wasn’t much of interest. A website about a Portsmouth guy who made custom strap-ons. No thanks. A forum dedicated to the local chapter of Furries. Also gonna opt out of that.

            Then I found something on Flog Blog that sounded interesting. A local hotel was hosting a BDSM mixer where you got to meet between fifteen and eighteen potential matches in one sitting.

            I leaned back in my chair and mused for a bit. It was tomorrow night. Should I not tell Erin about my most recent failure and just go?

            Just then, Bizzy awoke from her slumber. She was the one who begged me to go. I silenced her momentarily with a vibrator and steeled myself for the mixer, ready for anything.





CHAPTER TWO

            Cerise

            I sat uncomfortably in the hard, maroon banquet chair. I was assigned to seat twenty-one, at a small cocktail table in a hotel ballroom. It was decorated to look like a coffee shop—someplace where you may casually meet someone. Not an event hall rented out by a bunch of horned-up singles with spanking fetishes and the like.

            My bum was starting to fall asleep, so I shifted my weight and prayed for some success. I glanced down at my card—only two more guys to go.

            Last chance, I told myself again. Then I’m out.

            “Um, you’ve got more prerequisites than med school,” the young potential sub said, eyebrows furrowed. Brian something, I read from the card he handed me. It didn’t matter what his name was, since I had already checked NO once he started to tear apart my set of rules. This most definitely wasn’t going to work out.

            Another one bites the dust.

            “You will address me as Mistress Cherry, and clearly if you have a problem with my requests, then you’re not cut out to be my sub. Next, please,” I said dismissively.

            He held out his hand, wanting a minute to explain. “Come on, who makes these kinds of demands?” he said, face turning red, gesturing at my page of requirements. “Must be self-employed? Must be responsible for role-play props and costumes Monday through Thursday? Seriously, you’re out of your mind. Where’s that freaking bell?”

            That was probably the most tedious thing about the mixer—the timer.

            Every four minutes, the bell would ring, and someone else would come up to my table. Brian was the fifteenth guy to arrive and get frustrated before minute three. That meant I’d have to make small talk with my rejection for another minute before he moved on.

            “So, how about them Sox?” I asked.

            “I don’t like baseball,” he grumbled.