“Fuck no. I get to combine work and pleasure. Which brings me to the point of my call, you need to get over to Decadence more and enjoy the perks of the job. Life’s too short. Soon you’ll wake up a dried-up old man in his forties, like me.”
“Dried up, my ass. You run circles around the younger guys when you’re in the field. I wish I could use you more.”
“The numbers ain’t gonna crunch themselves, man.”
Keiran chuckled, getting his words turned back around on him.
“Which brings us back to those requisitions. Louise, our new office manager, is so afraid of your artic death glare, she won’t process any new hires without one. And fuck you for hiring her while I was off on a mission. She thinks she reports to you, instead of me.”
This time Eric chuckled. “She’s a smart girl. I knew she’d be perfect for the job. And, she’s submissive, she just hasn’t allowed herself to admit it yet.”
“She’s also young, beautiful, and single, working with a bunch of testosterone-charged ex-military and law enforcement types. One of them will steal her away, watch and see.”
“Shit,” Eric muttered.
“Yeah. Next time, I’m doing the hiring, and I’ll be looking for a ball busting Domme who won’t turn anyone’s head. In the meantime, sign the damn requisitions. I’ve got four guys champing at the bit to get started, but they expect to get paid.”
“I’ll see to it first thing in the morning.”
Keiran relaxed, although four wasn’t nearly enough, it was a start. “The team would be obliged, as would I. I’d like to enjoy my hard-earned salary occasionally, when not completely exhausted.”
“So, I can expect you Friday night?”
“As my sainted grandmother always said, if the good Lord is willing and the creek don’t rise.”
“We say that in Texas,” Eric commented, his forehead creasing even as his lips twitched with amusement. “I didn’t know it was also an Irish expression.”
“It’s not. Despite the accent and hair, which I inherited from my father, my mother was born and bred in North Carolina.”
He nodded, grinning now. “The subs will be happy to see you. They’ve been asking about you. As Val says, they’re all agog over your brogue and melt when you turn your Irish green eyes their way.” The last part was said with a healthy dose of disgust.
“A brogue is Scottish, my man, and only your Val would use the word agog.”
“I’ll let you advise her of both when we see you Friday at eight.”
“Slave driver,” Keiran muttered, though good-naturedly. It had been weeks since he’d been to the club and even though he’d be monitoring, he was already looking forward to the break. And if that creek didn’t rise, he’d squeeze in a scene with a warm and willing sub after midnight, even if he had to drink a pot of coffee and take a quadruple dose of vitamin E.
“Seriously, though, thanks,” Eric replied. “Without enough DMs I was afraid I’d have to shut down the theme rooms and end up with a riot on my hands.”
“Even more reason to get those requisitions to Louisa, the four men I want to hire all asked about membership at the club.”
After he disconnected, he looked at the pile of paperwork on his desk. Contracts in need of reviewing and signing, invoices needing the same, and his calendar was full of appointments with more potential clients. He was a field man, had been ever since he’d enlisted and for the ten years he’d served in the ARW, the special forces division of Ireland’s Army. A desk job wasn’t what he had in mind when he said yes to Cap and took this gig. He needed to get these new men trained quickly and hire an assistant to help with some of this administrative crap, so he could get back out there, close their backlog of cases, and find himself a sweet subbie who made him obnoxiously happy like Eric had.
At thirty-five, a revolving door of submissives was getting old. Having one to come home to after a mission and warming his bed at night was becoming more appealing with each passing year. And he wanted kids, several, and would like that seen to before he was too old and busted to enjoy it.
Both dreams were a good way off, especially if the only time he could carve out at the club was for DM duty.
With a long drawn-out, tired sigh, he reached for the tallest stack, the contracts, and got started on the four hours of paperwork ahead of him.
Chapter 3
Skin. Bare skin. Everywhere she looked.
Esme’s fingers tightened their grip on Pax’s strong arm as she tried to steady herself.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered, “it’s just—” Stopping short, she almost swallowed her tongue when a woman on a leash wearing a cupless bra and an ass-baring thong walked by with her Master. Proving it was an equal opportunity bondage club, a Mistress led a man past them sporting nothing other than assless, crotchless chaps. Esme cleared her throat and finally managed to finish her thought, “—a shock.”
He chuckled. “I felt the same way at first. After a few trips your eyes will unglaze, and you’ll see more than bare tits and asses every time you walk in.”
“I don’t know. Just walking through the lounge I felt overdressed, in here I feel positively Victorian.”
She saw bare shoulders, a back exposed by a daring dress, and smooth legs revealed beneath an up-to-the-ass micro mini-skirt. It seemed bar attire was more circumspect, but once inside the dungeon, it was no holds barred, or more aptly put, no holes barred.
Exposed nipples were commonplace for both male and female attire—the subs, mostly—she saw bare bottoms in all shapes and sizes, again, not gender specific, and genitals on open display as if they were no more intimate than an earlobe or an elbow.
Esme could only stare, entirely at a loss for words.
No, wait, she had two—holy crap!
Looking down at her own attempt at sexy fetish wear, the leather corset she’d chosen which revealed a modest amount of cleavage, and the skirt that fell to mid-thigh made her feel like a nun. A flash of memory took her back to her days at St. Anne’s Catholic School. She imagined the good sisters’ expressions upon witnessing the spectacle before her and would have laughed if she weren’t so stunned.
“You’re beautiful, Esme, and you don’t have to bare it all to fit in here. They take all comers. When you find someone you’re comfortable playing with, you can negotiate how much you’re willing to expose in the scene or go upstairs for more privacy. They monitor the theme rooms just like the main floor.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re shaking, sweetheart. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the bar, have a drink, settle your nerves, and talk about what you can expect? It’s been a while for you, and LA is not Baltimore.”
Truer words...
As the memory of that first night three months ago faded, Esme looked around and realized how right Pax had been. Standing inside the gothic doors now, she no longer saw only yards of skin, bare boobs, and exposed bottoms, but the people behind the BDSM trappings, or lack thereof.
Underneath, they weren’t much different from those she knew in the lifestyle back home. Out of the mainstream, they sought acceptance, kinship, and connection with a community. All of which they seemed to find here at Decadence LA.
While she looked around, she considered what a perfect name it was for the club. In addition to kink in every manner imaginable there was also—extravagance. No expense had been spared from the exquisite marble fixtures in the bathrooms to the plush furnishings and rich décor in the lounge and bar, or the custom-made bondage equipment that filled at least thirty play stations on the main floor and the dozen theme rooms upstairs. They even had heated floors! Rightfully so since the rules stated subs go barefoot once inside the dungeon. She found it ironic how no one blinked at the crops and paddles connecting with bare subbie bottoms and other tender parts, but heaven forbid their toes get cold.
She giggled, drawing strange looks. Because attention was something she tried to avoid, she smoothed out her feature
s, averted her gaze and headed inside.
As she made the circuit which was pretty much a walking path around the constant activity in the stations, she sensed heightened energy she hadn’t noticed in her many trips before. The room was buzzing with excitement broken by the frequent and loud crack of a whip. Esme looked toward the back of the room. The lights were up which was unusual. There were whipping posts and large cordoned off spaces for their use, but she’d never seen them used before.
She missed having Pax at her side, and it wasn’t the first time. Something was going on tonight, and she wasn’t sure what. Half of her wanted to high-tail it out the front door, but morbid curiosity drew her deeper into the room, and the further she went the bolder the play got.
She’d been to clubs before with Andrew, and a few times by herself about a year after he died. She was depressed and lonely, and like now, Pax had been out of town. But the dungeons back East were nothing like Decadence. The clientele wore leather and participated in scenes, but the most daring things she’d observed was the paddling of a male sub on the seat of his leather pants and a female submissive bound to a cross. She’d also been clothed, although her short skirt and skimpy top left a lot of bare skin exposed to her Dom’s lash. It was the same at all the other clubs she’d visited; nudity was against the rules as was public sex.
Here, the submissive men walked around in cock sleeves and nothing else, or harnesses, which were mostly a series of thin straps, buckles, and rivets—or completely naked.
Not to be ignored were the pussies, also exposed and in varied presentations, from smoothly waxed to neatly trimmed and in vintage style—full 1970s bush. Some were clamped, others had a single piercing, and a few looked like they’d spent considerable time in the tool-and-die shop being modified with O-rings. Still, others were bejeweled and bedazzled, and a few had dangling weights. Ouch!
Unlike the public clubs she’d been to in the past where sex only happened behind closed doors because full nudity was against the rules, at Decadence, it was the rule, evidently. It was happening everywhere. Not your average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill missionary-style sex, either, but raw, undiluted, kinky sex. In pairs, trios, and more participants than she could count. There was even a solo performance or two going on, directed by a crop-wielding dominant, naturally.
The variety of implements didn’t stop there. While walking the circuit around the thirty-some stations on the main floor, she saw paddles, floggers, and whips in a variety of colors and lengths. A few were full-sized bullwhips worn coiled at the waist of a scary-looking leather-clad man, although she had seen a red, braided quirt carried by a woman.
Tonight, the kink wasn’t limited to basic bondage and impact play; it was edgier. Pax may have steered her away from the hardcore stuff on prior trips, but he couldn’t have concealed the crackle of a violet wand or the smell of acrid smoke from the fire play scene she’d glimpsed in a dimly lit corner. And, she couldn’t have missed the cries of pleasure or the screams of pain that sounded more strident, and frequent than on previous nights. The most voluble, if she had to rate it, came from a well-lit scene toward the rear of the enormous space. Curious, she wandered over and tried to see over the shoulders of the crowd, but it was shoulder to shoulder and at least five gawkers deep.
“What’s going on here?” she asked the woman beside her who was also up on her toes, but she had the strong arm of the man beside her for support.
“A lacing demonstration. I’d love to try it, Mistress Melissa’s corset designs are so beautiful, but I have a needle phobia.”
“We’ll work on that, Chloe, if this is something you want to try,” the man beside her said. “Hush now, so everyone can hear her instructions.”
“Yes, Master,” the blonde said dutifully.
Esme couldn’t understand what was so fascinating about watching someone being laced into a corset, but this couple and the other onlookers appeared transfixed. It became clear when a few people in front of her shifted. A submissive lay face down on a bondage table, as her Domme stood over her, hands expertly lacing a crisscross pattern down her back. At first glance it seemed innocent, the black and ivory laces a beautiful contrast to each other and the woman’s fair coloring. On second glance she noticed there was no corset. Instead of boning and satin, there was only the sub’s pale skin, and rather than metal grommets to thread the laces through, they were looped around parallel rows of needles embedded into the woman’s skin running the length of her back on either side of her spine.
“Oh my God, that must be excruciating!” Esme whispered in horror.
The man standing next to her glanced over with his eyebrow sharply raised. “Look again. The needles are a fine gauge and only penetrate a fraction underneath the skin.”
She took another glance, this time more closely. The needles went through the sub’s skin at a small angle, not deeply as it first appeared. Still, it was shocking and to someone squeamish like herself, disturbing. “Won’t they scar her back?”
“This is your first play piercing demonstration, isn’t it?”
And my last, was on the tip of her tongue. Wisely, she answered with, “Yes, sir,” instead.
“When done correctly, in a controlled setting with precautions taken to prevent infection, needle play is quite safe. Note the gloves the Domme is wearing, they are sterile, as are the needles, and she took care to prepare her sub’s skin with an antiseptic in advance. It’s a work of art when finished, but more so than aesthetically pleasing, it’s erotic. With the excitement of the scene, the crowd looking on, and the needle pricks, not to mention the high she gets when she surrenders completely to her Mistress’ care, a flood of endorphins are coursing through the girl’s system. Look at her face, and listen to her moans, she’s in subspace and has been since the fourth or fifth needle went in.”
Looking at it through different eyes—green ones that were calm, not shocked and horrified—Esme realized it was true. The sub’s eyes were half closed, her lips slightly parted as she kept up a constant moan which didn’t sound anything close to pain. She flushed, realizing she’d jumped to a conclusion, which considering where she was and what else she’d witnessed tonight, was wrong and narrow-minded.
The man leaned down and said quietly in her ear, “Next time, I suggest you gather your facts and reserve your judgment until after you do.”
Though softly worded, it was a scolding all the same. She looked up at him, but he was watching the scene.
“One other thing, little sub. We always have medical staff available on nights like tonight, just in case.”
Good to know. But the thought of needles anywhere except her earlobes made her squirm and her stomach queasy. No freaking way!
She murmured, “Thank you for the lesson, sir,” then was out of there so fast, she accidentally stepped on a few bare toes and ran head first into another Dom. He steadied her and glowered when he didn’t immediately get the requisite apology, but she didn’t stick around for another scolding.
Leaving behind thoughts of needles in tender places, no matter how sharp or how small, she wandered to the back of the main room and the stairs leading up to the second-floor theme rooms. In Esme’s opinion, the elaborate fantasy suites were where the Decadence magic really happened. There was an authentic school room complete with a blackboard and a naughty girl stool in the corner, an office with a large executive’s desk where she imagined more than a few subs had spent quality time taking more than dictation, and a private torture chamber which was straight out of the middle ages.
As she passed by the dungeon, she saw the observation windows were open and she stopped to peek in.
Flickering bulbs in the wall sconces cast eerie shadows over the iron shackles mounted to the walls, a set of wooden stocks, and a bondage table that looked an awful lot like a rack. And hanging from hooks on the back wall, every punishment implement imaginable. But tonight, the main attraction was the iron slave cage and the willing victim inside.
On he
r hands and knees, she had her face to the large rectangular opening near the top of the cage and her bottom pressed against the one on the other end. Her two strapping guards were availing themselves of what she offered, one sliding his cock in her mouth while the other took her hard from behind. From the moans emanating from within the iron bars, she seemed far from tortured.
Moving on down the long corridor, Esme paused to take in the scene at the next room and the next. She could exit medieval Europe, enter a CEO’s office, and then be in a modern-day schoolroom all in the span of a few moments. Walk another thirty feet and she could step into the opulence of a Sultan’s Chamber in Istanbul, complete with a huge four post bed with silk bed curtains.
Most of the rooms had their doors flung wide and the sliding glass observation windows open, inviting people to stop and watch. Esme had figured out why, pretty quickly. The membership here was heavy into exhibitionism and loved holding demonstrations. She’d seen them before, mostly stilted, boring, anticlimactic how-to sessions, Doms liked to teach. But once again, at Decadence there was a difference, they were a step above, and neither boring nor stilted, and more like choreographed mini-dramas. And, when it was an actual how-to session, Esme noted they were often interactive with the audience.
Like in the medical room where she stood.
A man in a crisp white lab coat, presumably the doctor, stood beside an authentic-looking gynecological exam table, where a stripped bare, strapped down sub with her legs in the stirrups lay calmly watching as he addressed the crowd peering in through the open observation windows.
“The elusive G-spot,” he was saying, “does it exist? And, if so, how does it work, where do I find it, and how can I make my partner explode with a deluge of passion? How many of you have asked these questions?”
Affirmative answers rippled through the crowd from both the men and the women.
The doctor grinned. “Tonight, we will prove it is more than a myth by making Ellie, my beautiful assistant, a very satisfied and extremely dehydrated submissive. Who’d like to be my volunteer for this demonstration?”
Dare to Love Again Page 3