Dear Ms. Bromenski,

We’re pleased to welcome you to The Pleasure Club.

As you have already signed and returned the contract and filled out all the necessary forms to ensure you receive your every wish, we will be in touch with you shortly with the details of your first Pleasure Night. Your Wish List and Pleasure Forms have been turned over to our staff of highly trained Pleasure Guardians, and they are hard at work finding your perfect match.

We will endeavor to meet your personal fantasy.

When you are contacted again, you will be given a location where your Pleasure Night will begin, and you will also be given a safe word to use should you at any time become uncomfortable. There is no shame in changing your mind. We’re here for your pleasure, and should your safe word be used, your match for the evening will cease all activity, and the game will be put on hold until a mutual agreement between you and your Pleasure Master(s) can be reached.

Once again, welcome to The Pleasure Club.

Please feel free to contact the office at any time should you have any questions.

Yours truly,

The Pleasure Club Management

* * * * *

Ms. Bromenski,

Your Pleasure Night will begin Friday the 5th at 6:00 PM in the Montebello Castle Winery, located at 1800 Mangrove Lane.

Your safe word is Merlin.

Sincerely,

The Pleasure Guardians

* * * * *

Gwen Bromenski stared at the monstrous mansion and its gray stone walls, and a shiver of excitement raced through her, making her tingle all over.

Her mother named her after the Guenevere of the King Arthur legends, and she grew up to the music of the Broadway cast recording of Camelot on LP, and the double VHS tape—or rather several copies of them, because her mother wore them out—of the movie. To this day, she knew every one of those songs by heart. Every word of the movie permanently ingrained in her brain.

Of course, her mother—a single mother who wasn’t quite sure which of the three men she’d been seeing at the time was Gwen’s father—lived in a fantasy world, waiting for her prince to come and sweep her off her feet.

Gwen lived no such lie. Why her mother never saw that Camelot was not a feel-good, happy-ending movie was beyond her. The wife cheated on her husband and was damned near put to death because of it. There were no winners there that Gwen could see.

As soon as she turned twelve, she started babysitting. By fifteen she worked on the boardwalk selling hot dogs and fries. And the day she graduated high school, she took an unpaid internship at a local law firm specializing in immigration and tax law. She’d been such an asset to them, the senior partner said at the end of the summer, they were going to pay her tuition to college, then to the university, so she could get her law degree. Three weeks ago she’d been made a junior partner in that firm.

She hadn’t wiled away her life waiting for a man to sweep her off her feet and make everything okay, the way her mother had.

Her mother had died two years ago. She’d never been one to make close friends, because she’d worked so hard to make and save money since she was a young teen. She hadn’t had time for friends. And now she had no family.

They’d had champagne and a cake as a small, congratulatory party at the law firm for her when they gave her the promotion, but she’d gone home to an empty house that night.

In that moment, Gwen thought perhaps her mother hadn’t been completely off base in her fantasies. That night, Gwen realized she’d let the first thirty-one years of her life slip by with nothing to show for it except a couple of degrees, a two-bedroom condo in a nice neighborhood, a BMW in the garage, and a spot on the roster of a well-established law firm.

It was everything she’d ever wanted.

It did nothing to fill a yawning hole in her middle that said she’d missed out on a lot of wonderful things that could have happened if she’d stopped, or even slowed down, for a few moments. Raised her head from her books and law journals for a second or two.

Sure, there’d been a few fumbled dates in college. Even a couple of one-night stands. Who wanted to get all the way through college a virgin? She’d seen it as a rite of passage, and it had been tremendously disappointing.

She experienced lust. In the dark of the night, in the quiet of her bedroom, she had vague ideas of a man who could fulfill her needs, both in and out of bed. She had a nightstand drawer half full of graphic erotica and buzzing, pulsing sex toys. But who had the time to find a man who could actually do all the things she imagined, give her the releases she received by her own hand?

Gwen ran her hands over the rough silk of her gown and marveled as the gray stones of the mansion—her castle tonight—turned a burnished pink in the glow of the setting sun.

As if fate—which she’d never believed in because everyone makes their own fate—had dropped into her lap, the morning after her great revelation, she’d found a business card lying on the sidewalk just outside her condo.

The Pleasure Club it had read, on a beautifully embossed, cream-colored, textured hundred-pound card stock with the lightest matte finish.

Yes, she knew her business cards, and this one was classy. Professionally printed, and not by a discount store, either. But it was the handwritten note on the back that intrigued and thrilled her, even though it hadn’t been meant for her.

You can teach this cowboy to ride anytime.

I won’t forget you.

Jeb.

Cowboys and pleasure clubs. Her heart had raced as her mind skipped off into forbidden territory—fantasy.

She refused to fantasize. Lie to herself. That was what fantasies were; believing in something that absolutely could and would never happen. As her mother had fantasized about that white knight riding in on his steed, sweeping her off her feet, and riding into the sunset.

Yeah, right.

Gwen’s fantasy was a little less complicated than a happily ever after. It involved hands and tongue and a long, thick cock pounding into her cunt. A hard, muscle-bound male body, sculpted to perfection, that she could curl her nails into and leave her mark. Her fantasy was about hot, sweaty bodies writhing in ecstasy, hearing her own screams of pleasure—something she’d never actually heard before—and having one of those orgasms she read about in that smutty erotica she read. The kind that kills brain cells, releases all inhibitions, and would make her know for certain that sex is worth the effort.

So, she’d tracked down The Pleasure Club, finding them not with a splashy ad in the Yellow Pages, but as a small listing in the White Pages. When she did an Internet search on the address, she came up with the Montebello Castle Winery. Their Web site was about the vineyard, and the cute little chapel where one could book a wedding. They rented space for company parties and family reunions, and even had a couple of cabins to rent for honeymooners in the deep forest behind the “castle.”

She hadn’t been to Europe, and hadn’t seen any castles up close and personal, but she thought calling this place one was a bit over the top, though it was beautiful, and she could force herself to imagine, for the evening, that it was.

After a week of pondering, imagining, and letting herself fantasize all manner of hot scenarios, she’d called the number listed in the phonebook—a different number than calling the winery—and set up an appointment to meet with a Pleasure Guardian.

She’d gone after work, and kept her hand firmly on the canister of pepper spray tucked in her suit jacket pocket. She had no idea what to expect. The receptionist she’d spoken to had been very nice but wouldn’t answer any questions over the phone—for legal purposes, she’d said.

The office had been downtown, not far from where she worked. The Pleasure Guardian had been a woman in her late forties, beautiful, soft-spoken, and very informative.

Gwen had left the meeting with a thick sheaf of papers to fill out, and she hadn’t been able to sleep that night until she pulled herself out of bed and answered every single one of the hundred or so questions. She dropped the questionnaire in the mail with her membership check the next morning on her way to work, and then waited.

The letter had arrived a week ago.

And here she was.

Her mother must be rolling in her grave, because the only scenario Gwen could come up with was Camelot. Her very own knight. Two men battling for her favor. She’d grown up memorizing the movie, every song, every word.

“Saint Genevieve,” Gwen whispered. “I’m over here, remember me?”

Gwen had gone in to take the bar exam with less trepidation than she had right now.

Sucking in a deep breath, she turned and looked out at the manicured lawn, the overflowing flowerbeds, and the acres and acres of vineyard beyond. Then she walked up the cobblestone path to the steps, her soft-soled slippers making not a sound. She did love this outfit with its long, flowing skirt and off-the-shoulders top. Not often did she dress like a woman. A woman of pleasure, not the uptight, navy suit, hair-in-a-bun woman who showed up to work five days a week.

The right side of the double doors stood open just a crack, and she pushed it open.

“Ahh, there she is, my beautiful queen,” a masculine voice said, laced with the soft lull of not an English accent but more likely Irish.

Interesting.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior of her castle, Gwen’s lips turned up into a small smile. The foyer was lit with dancing candles in sconces along the stonework walls. The scent of beeswax was strong, and in the middle of the wide hallway in front of her stood two gorgeous, tall, muscle-bound men.

“Good evening,” she said with a small curtsy after she shut the heavy wooden door behind her. “We have a guest?” She’d taken one acting class in college—mandatory for one of her degrees—and she’d been pretty good. Tonight might turn out to be a little fun.

“Gwen, darling,” the one on the right said, stepping forward and holding out his hand to her, “I’d like you to meet Sir Lancelot. He has come to join the round table.”

Her husband, whom she assumed was the one and only King Arthur, had short-cropped blond hair with a very modern, military-type look to it, but Lancelot—be still my heart—had long black locks that flowed over his shoulders. These two sure looked better than Richard Harris and Franco Nero from the 1967 movie she’d watched about a million times in her childhood.

The clothing could have been straight out of the movie. They wore snug leggings that showed off every rippling muscle of their calves and thighs, and the jackets, or doublets, or whatever they were called, fell just above their hips, so their very nicely formed packages were practically on display. And they wore sword scabbards with big, ornate handles sticking out of them. And daggers.

Arthur wore off white; Lancelot, bless him, wore all black.