Blake grasps her ankles and buckles them into the stirrups. Her breathing quickens as he places her, swiftly and surely, under his control. “Somebody’s excited,” he says, amused. He bends his mouth to Lana’s pussy, and she whimpers as he sucks her clitoris between his teeth, almost jumping off the table in response.
“Tie her down, Declan,” Blake says to me. “I don’t want her squirming away from me.”
A shiver runs through her body, as I hold up the leather straps in my hands so she can see them. Goosebumps rise on her skin, but her eyes shine with excitement, and she nods eagerly.
A smile curls on my lips.
Ms. Davey, we’re about to give you an afternoon you’re never going to forget.
CHAPTER ONE
Lana:
I’ve never felt the urge to throttle my boss. Until now.
“You promised I could go on vacation.” I stare at John Beene in exasperation.
For months, the managing editor of The Torch, Portland’s finest investigative weekly news magazine, has had me chasing one depressing story after another. I’ve done exposés of isolated religious sects in which the ‘leader’ marries every fifteen-year-old girl in the community. I’ve written articles about corruption in local governments. About water poisoning. About factories in the remote Northwest breaking environmental regulations without consequences.
I’m exhausted. “I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the last three months,” I continue, my voice rising in frustration. “You promised me that I could take a week off, and you promised,” I give my unrepentant boss a glare that bounces off him without impact, “that you’d give me a stint in the Lifestyle department. Three months, I believe you said.”
“That was before the Pulitzer nomination,” John says blandly. “Come on, Lana. You’re an amazing investigative journalist. I have a story for you to investigate. I don’t see what the problem is.”
Let’s see. When I got back to my apartment after chasing the latest story, my lone houseplant, a cactus, had died. Cacti survive in deserts. They’re supposedly indestructible, but even a cactus couldn’t survive my neglect. “John,” I try to appeal to my boss’s good sense, “I’m burned out. I need a week on a beach somewhere. I need margaritas and hot muscled pool boys offering to rub lotion on my back. What I do not need,” I pause for effect, “is to rush off to some remote middle-of-nowhere small town to investigate some kind of medical scam.”
John isn’t budging. He’s like a dog with a bone. I’m so tired that even my metaphors don’t make any sense. “Admit it, Lana. This is fascinating stuff. In the last year, dozens of single women have moved to the small town of Goat, Oregon, all because a pair of doctors are running some kind of sex clinic, with promises of ‘happy endings.’” He does air quotes when he says ‘happy endings’ and his eyebrows rise comically high. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested in figuring out what’s going on.”
“I’m not interested in figuring out what’s going on,” I reply flatly. “Insurance scams are a dime a dozen, and they’re boring. Come on, John. The Astoria Yacht club is celebrating its hundredth anniversary this weekend. Let me cover that.”
John rolls his eyes. “That’s a fluff piece,” he replies. “It’ll be a bunch of rich guys in their boats, sipping martinis and what not. Mindy can handle it.”
Lucky Mindy. “You ever stop to think I might want to find myself a rich guy in a boat?”
He snorts. “You’ll be bored in ten minutes being some guy’s arm candy. Besides, I’m watching out for you. You’ll need to infiltrate the community before you can set up a sting at the clinic. That’ll probably take a month or two. Think of it,” he adds persuasively, “as a vacation.”
It’s not a vacation, not if I know John. I’m pretty sure he’ll be expecting me to write an article a day while I’m hanging out in Goat.
You could always say no.
But then what? Investigative journalists are being laid off by the dozens. I’m lucky to have a job at The Torch. Several of my classmates are flipping burgers and writing freelance click-bait articles for ten bucks a pop.
Of course, click-bait sells, and that’s precisely why John’s so gung-ho about this story. It involves doctors, sex, and threesomes in a small town. I bet you anything that John’s fantasizing about exploding subscriber numbers. “Fine,” I sigh. “What’s my cover?”
Now that he’s ensured my cooperation, John’s all smiles. “You have a reservation at the Nanny Goat Bed and Breakfast for the next eight weeks,” he says cheerfully. “They’re expecting you tomorrow night. Your cover story is that you’re a writer working on your next novel.”
Goat, Oregon. Nanny Goat Bed and Breakfast. I’m sensing a theme here.
“Tomorrow is Saturday, John. You have got to be kidding me.”
He spreads his arms wide. “I don’t want to get scooped on this, Lana. This story is going to be big. I can feel it in my bones.”
Shaking my head, I get to my feet. If I’m supposed to leave tomorrow, I have laundry to do.
Later that evening, I head out to meet my friend Hailey for drinks at a bar in Concordia. We settle down in a booth, and the waiter appears to take our food orders. Once we’ve been assured of nachos and beer, Hailey looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “What’s with the long face, babe?”
“John wants me to check out a couple of love doctors in some crazy-ass small town,” I mutter gloomily. “So much for the Astoria yacht club feature I was hoping to do.”
She cocks her head to one side, looking remarkably like a parrot in her bright green t-shirt and crimson red pants. Hailey never met a color she didn’t love. “Love doctors?” she asks. “Crazy-ass small town. I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
Our beers show up. I drain almost half my glass before answering. “According to John, there’s a pair of doctors in the town of Goat, Oregon that specializes in getting women off as part of their treatment. John called it a ‘happy ending.’”
She snorts into her beer. “Goat, Oregon?”
“Yup.” While my clothes were drying earlier, I had time to do some research on the remote community. “It was founded almost sixty years ago by a reclusive millionaire who wanted a secluded place where he could stash his mistress. His fifteen-year-old mistress.”
“That sounds lovely.” Unsurprisingly, Hailey’s voice is sarcastic. She’s the editor of a feminist magazine called Girl Power. Stuff like this outrages her.
“Don’t worry; the millionaire is long-dead. The mistress is still alive though. She’s in her early seventies. Her name is Elvira Grantham, and she lives in a mansion on the outskirts of town. I bet you anything that she’s a lot more interesting than a pair of doctors with a fondness for pussy.”
The waiter shows up at that moment with a platter of nachos, and judging by his scandalized look, he’s overheard my last sentence. Poor guy. I make a mental note to tip him well.
Once he sets our food down and makes a break for it, Hailey continues her cross-examination. “So how do the doctors know if a patient wants a little frisky on the side? Is there a form to check off?”
“You’re far more fascinated by this than I am.” I snag a cheese-coated chip. “According to the anonymous tipster who called The Torch, there’s a code phrase. ‘Make me feel good, Doctors.’”
Hailey starts to giggle. “This is awesome.”
A reluctant smile curls on my lips at my best friend’s mirth. “Okay, I guess it is kind of interesting, in a strange and demented way. You want to know what the absolute best thing is?”
She nods enthusiastically.
“The clinic is called Clinic of Love.”
She bursts out laughing. “Please tell me you’re going to become a patient at the Clinic of Love,” she begs me. “And you said there are two doctors? Do they both participate in the dirty-dirty? What are their names?”
“Not a clue about the dirty-dirty.” I pop a slice of jalapeno in my mouth. “And would you believe the Clinic of Love doesn’t have a website? I don’t know anything about the doctors.”
Hailey leans forward, her eyes shining with glee. “You should do them,” she says. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her ever-present notebook. Flipping to an empty page, she writes a big, bold heading.
Lana’s Sex Bucket List.
“What the hell?” I stare at my friend. “You’re nuts, you know that?”
“Am I?” she retorts. “When was the last time you had sex?”
The waiter had been approaching us to ask us if we were ready for our next round. As soon as he hears Hailey’s loudly-voiced question, his face heats up, and he scampers away. “You scared the kid,” I accuse Hailey. “He’s going to be scarred for life if you keep this up.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “I bet he hears a lot worse. You’re ducking my question.”
How long has it been? I can’t even remember. Too long. I’m never home long enough to date someone, and I’m not brave enough for Tindr.