She shrugged. “I didn’t have plans or anything.” She’d taken a sip of the ice water before realizing Dru had ordered it for her without asking. Dom for real? If she was, she wasn’t pushing it very hard. Just in case, Mara added, “Ma’am.”
Dru’s mouth quirked up at one corner. “From what Amie says, planning isn’t your strong suit. But that’s okay,” she reassured Mara. “It’s not what I need you for. I only need an experienced sub to help mentor a couple new to the lifestyle. With any luck, they’ll be arriving shortly. If you’re all right with that? I’ve only been in St. Andrews a few months, so I don’t have a whole lot of contacts to work with in the community.”
“Oh. I guess so. What would I need to do?”
Nothing she hadn’t done before, most likely. She’d done some stints as a volunteer dungeon monitor at conventions. Club Onyx got new visitors from time to time, some starting out and some just curious. It was a safe space to play, and she’d donated her back to a few relatively inexperienced floggers in her time. As long as they were closely supervised by somebody who knew what they were doing.
“Well, how far you go with it is really up to you. Primarily you’ll be there to show them the equipment, explain anything they need. You’ll have a private room, but one of the regular dungeon monitors will be on call if you need him.”
“I have to ask, wouldn’t they normally be the ones showing people the ropes?”
Dru smiled over the rim of her coffee cup. “I don’t have a subby monitor right now. And I have a feeling this very new Dom might feel more comfortable with a female who has a nonthreatening sub vibe, rather than one of the big monitors who look like bouncers. It isn’t intentional, but that’s who we have at the moment.” She shrugged.
Laughing, Mara looked around the tastefully appointed main room of the club. There was some play taking place on a St. Andrew’s cross in one corner, nothing too heavy, and the two men she saw standing nearby in orange DM vests were indeed big and practically oozed dominance.
“His wife is a bit more confident and has more experience,” Dru went on. “But I think that’s probably not helping. He needs a boost. In fact, to the extent you’re willing to play along with it, he probably needs to know he can be a Dom with a sub who isn’t his wife. He needs to assert he’s doing this for himself, not all for her.”
“I’ll do what I can, Mistress.” It had slipped out. Mara tried to cover it with another sip of water.
“I’m not your mistress, Mara.” Her classier doppelganger spoke a bit too kindly, with another wry quirk of her mouth. “I’m not anybody’s mistress. You can call me Dru.”
Mara tipped her water glass in Dru’s direction in a mock toast. “Fair enough.”
They fell silent, both of them watching the dais in the nearest corner, where a jeans-and-T-shirt-clad rope top had started to pull equipment out of a duffel bag. Color-coded bundles of rope, some rings, a handful of giant carabiners. His curvy, redheaded bottom stripped her sarong off in one easy motion and stood beside him naked, one hand wrapped around a chain that hung from the scaffold over the platform. Leaning back, letting the chain take her weight . . . teasing herself with the preview of being suspended.
The woman’s foot slipped, and she caught herself on the chain, giggling. Her top looked up and shook his head, pretending to frown but unable to hide his smirk. When he reached out and whacked her haunch with a bight of rope from the bundle he was laying out, she yelped, then giggled again. Breathy and eager, a little shaky with prescene jitters. She kept pretending to play around, swinging on the chains, but Mara noticed she never quite took her eyes off her top.
A wave of sadness hit Mara, catching her unawares. She bit her lower lip and tried to focus on the pain to center herself.
“Have you done suspension before?”
Dru’s question startled her, but was a welcome distraction.
“Some suspension. A lot of rope bondage in general. A Dom I used to play with a lot—before Amie—was into it. He also taught me how to do a lot of the tying. Later I gave a few workshops. Fun stuff.” She’d enjoyed following Sir Anon’s meticulous instructions, carefully wrapping length after length of hand-dyed hemp or smooth bamboo silk rope around a fellow sub. Sir Anon had liked to watch. Mara had liked to perform. She’d also liked passing along her knowledge to eager neophytes. “I draw the line at jute, though. Nasty splinters.”
“Amie said you had a pretty broad range of experience.”
Mara nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m gonna just let that one . . .”
Dru snickered, a wicked grin flashing across her face. “Sorry. Experience with a wide variety of equipment.”
Mara got stuck for a second or two on the change in Dru’s appearance. The smile lit her up, turned her from a somewhat chilly beauty into a traffic-stopper. Not Mara’s type, exactly, she tended to steer clear of power femmes. Amie had been a rare exception, and look where that had gotten her. But wowza. “Um. Uh, I . . .” Jesus, I need to get laid. “I’ve done some different stuff, yeah.”
Quick as it had appeared, the smile vanished and the cool serenity returned. “Amie’s vouched for you on all the major equipment in the Rose Room. I trust her recommendation. If Master Daniel brings anything of his own you’re not familiar with, or that’s a trigger or hard limit for you in any way, signal for a DM. Ulterior motive, of course. I want you to feel comfortable so you’ll come back too, to play on your own.”
“Gotcha.” Mara wanted to read more into Dru’s invitation to return. An implicit come-on, a certain heat. So you’ll come back to play with me. She got nothing, though. None of the rampant top energy she’d expected after their phone call . . . or even after spotting Dru for the first time. Weird. “So, you and Amie—”
She’d planned to follow through with have known each other a long time. But Dru answered a question Mara hadn’t considered asking. “We were only together a few months. We’ve just been friends ever since. She’s . . . We weren’t at the same place, you know? It happens.” She shrugged it off and returned her attention to the redhead on the dais, who was now standing patiently while her top fashioned a chest harness from violet rope.
Wait, what the what, how on earth are you not a top, no way did Amie bottom for anyone, can I get a confirmation . . . Mara bit it all back and contemplated the rope work as well. The scaffold, a framework of four-by-four beams and metal pipes, looked as solid as if it had been an original part of the building. The black paint on the wood was immaculate—no chips or worn edges at Escape.
“Everything looks fantastic in here. You did a great job with the setup.”
“Thanks. I had a lot of time to figure out exactly how I wanted everything to look.” Dru slid the clipboard across the table and unclipped a pen from the top, handing it to Mara. “So, are you ready to sign some boring paperwork and get this party started?”
New kink club, new set of boilerplate liability waivers. With a resigned sigh, Mara took the pen and clicked it open. “So hot. Let’s do this.”
Two nights in a row. I’ve created a monster.
Even as she thought it, in the car on the way to Escape, Delia acknowledged that it wasn’t true. She hadn’t created anything, and there was no monster. There was a propensity. It had been there all along; something in her had always recognized it, and she had finally invited Daniel to let it out.
Her motivation had probably been selfish. While she absolutely wanted Daniel to express his deepest, darkest needs—the things he’d only hinted at for years—she knew she wouldn’t have been brave enough to encourage him if it weren’t for her own needs. If she hadn’t wanted it even more.
So they were both getting what they needed out of their new hobby, right? Because that was what it seemed like: an all-engrossing new hobby. When Daniel got into a new thing he tended to dive in headfirst, spend all his free time at it, get completely absorbed. He’d been binge-watching television shows long before it was cool. He’d spent two years obsessed with remote-control airplanes, devotin
g whole weekends to model building and air shows. It really shouldn’t have surprised her that he took the same enthusiastic approach now that he was finally able to explore his kinks.
In the past, she’d shared in his interests when it pleased her, had supported him even when it wasn’t especially her thing. But she’d never felt swept up in what he was doing. She wasn’t used to being, in essence, the subject of his fixation.
It was vaguely depersonalizing. She kind of liked it.
But still . . . going out two nights in a row? Slow your roll, there, Master, you’re going to burn yourself right out.
Because he did that too, sometimes. Bought into something utterly, paid attention to little else for a few months, and then . . . his interest faded as quickly as it had arisen. She couldn’t bear for that to happen this time. Couldn’t bear to watch him come upon a leather cuff or a bottle of lube six months from now and view it with all the passionless nostalgia he felt for a found tube of hardened, useless model-airplane cement.
She didn’t want to be the wasted tube of glue.
Daniel was silent the whole way to the club. Thoughtful, pensive, and Delia wanted to believe that was because he was focused on his plans for the night. Important though that was, his detachment was a slow torture. Why didn’t he notice her tension? Me, me, me, pay attention to me . . . Her brain wouldn’t shut up.
When they arrived at Escape, the valet parking was a comforting touch. Classier than the neighborhood suggested. At least the cars would be monitored. Maybe.
She got out of the car and waited, tightening the belt on her long black cardigan, while Daniel handed off the keys. When he came around the car and took her hand, he gave her a smile—a real one, eyes crinkling and everything. He squeezed her fingers, and that moment of reassurance lasted until they’d made it past the line of clueless twenty-somethings who clearly didn’t understand what “private club” meant, past the gigantic bouncer with their names on his clipboard, and into the long, moodily lit entry hall.
House music thumped through the walls, not as loud as at a dance club but still pervasive. The throb was offset by flashes of shifting color. When she reached the door to the main area, she saw that half the room looked like any upscale bar in town. The long, gleaming stretch of wood, the mirror-backed shelves. An assortment of boxy leather chairs and benches with side tables scattered artfully in front of that. The wall over the bar was lit with indirect color that changed every few seconds.
Movement and a soft cry drew Delia’s gaze to the far corner of the room, where a pool of light illuminated a St. Andrew’s cross. A slender blond man was bound there, and she saw the tails of a flogger fly before connecting with his back again, yanking another gasp from him. Her view of his partner was obscured by the chairs, the column at the end of the bar, the moody lighting, the dozen or so milling patrons who were mostly still in street clothes. More shadows and bodies hid other activities, and the light babble of conversation from the gathering crowd masked the sound of other activities around the space.
She felt too jumpy, too aware of her surroundings. She wanted to let herself go, to trust Daniel. But he was unfamiliar with the club too. What if he aimed for a private dungeon room and led her into a hallway with business offices, or out a fire exit that locked behind them?
He’s not an idiot, she reminded herself. He’d found this new place, gotten an invite, even arranged for them to sign the paperwork in advance electronically. He was on top of things.
And he definitely looked hot in the silky maroon dress shirt and black jeans. She’d bought him the shirt but never thought he’d wear it. Seeing him in it had been a pleasant surprise. Seeing him give her a look as if he were wearing it to humor her had been so hot it was unsettling. The look had said he would expect her to make it up to him.
And, oh, how she wanted to.
She peeked around the place as she followed Daniel. It looked, frankly, quite a bit nicer than the club they’d been to before. The wood was polished, the bartender was cute. The doorman had been scary enough to keep out anybody who wanted to gawk.
“Hi there. Are you Master Daniel?”
A soft voice stopped their progress. From her position directly behind her husband, Delia couldn’t see the speaker. Which meant she must not be any taller than Daniel’s shoulder. Delia’s size, in other words.
“Yes. Are you Dru?”
“I’m Mara, Sir. I’m another club member. Dru asked me to help you out tonight with anything you needed. She’s reserved a room for you. I can show you back whenever you’re ready.”
Delia stood on her toes for a second, but only caught a general impression of pixie-cut black hair and very pale skin. She couldn’t get around the leather chair next to Daniel to get a better look.
“Thank you, Mara. Can we get a tour first? It’s our first time here.”
“Mine too, actually. I’m only helping out for tonight. But we can see what’s happening on the floor. Sir, somebody keeps peeking over your shoulder.”
Tattletale.
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is my w—um. My sub, Dee.”
He turned and scooted her forward with an arm around her waist, and Delia got her first real look at the owner of the pixie hair.
Wow.
The pixie girl—Mara—was staring back at her with a look that Delia told herself was just friendly. Not hot, not sultry. Not clearly interested.
Daniel was looking from one of them to the other with a very strange smile.
“Do I tell the two of you to shake hands here, or what? Arm wrestle? Do you have to have a submissive cage match?”
“Two of us would enter, but only one of us would leave, Sir,” Mara quipped. “And where would be the fun in that?”
Daniel chuckled. Mara grinned and started toward the corner with the cross in it, letting them follow at their own pace. When they got closer, Delia discovered the top was a very muscular, very bearded bald man who worked with not one but two floggers.
They stopped to watch, and she found herself aching to take the boy’s place. He was so obviously enjoying it—though he was more vocal about expressing his preferences than Delia would have ever been.
“Fuck, do the shoulders, more on the shoulders. Oh, fuck yes!”
“You’re such a demanding little bitch,” his Florentine-flogging top retorted. “Don’t make me get out the ball gag again.” His arms never stopped moving, weaving an intricate ballet of black leather across his happy victim’s heated skin.
“I should learn to do that,” Daniel murmured, as if to himself. Delia tried not to look too eager as she hummed a nonverbal agreement.
Mara echoed the hum. “It does look like fun.”
Does she mean giving or receiving? Delia couldn’t quite tell. Mara seemed deferential toward “Master Daniel,” but that might not mean anything. Some people were polite that way. Some Dominants didn’t seem all that toppy out of scene. She could even be a switch. World of possibilities. Hot-as-fuck possibilities.
“Over here—” Mara gestured right, stepping in the direction of the adjacent corner “—is the big suspension frame. It’s pretty freaking cool.”
It was unoccupied, allowing them a perfect chance to study the impressive, stationary structure. Daniel immediately stepped onto the platform and started inspecting the joints, wearing his work frown.
“Honey . . .” It popped out before she could stop herself, but Daniel was so engrossed he barely spared her a glance.
He reached up to one of the cross braces, testing it with his weight. “You could hang so many bodies off this thing . . . Wow, that did not come out sounding too good. But you know what I mean. Not in a serial-killer way.”
Mara grinned at him. “Apparently last weekend they decided to test that. There were a dozen subs suspended and/or lashed to the supports. Dru called it the Clown Car.”
Delia giggled. “Please tell me none of them were actually dressed as clowns?”
“Oh God, I hope not. Hard limit.”
Her eyes met Delia’s for a second, then another second. Too long. Mara bit her lip. They looked away at the same time, and Delia felt her cheeks heat up. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d flirted with anyone other than Daniel. Was that what she was doing now?
Mara cleared her throat. “So . . . another small suspension frame there, as you can see, then also the spanking benches. Then a horse, and on the other side of that would be the stocks. Main room is first come, first served, wait your turn. For now. Dru said they may have to move to sign-up sheets.”
Only one couple was playing in the bench area, but it was still early. “I’d never heard of this place before this weekend.”
“Yeah. Only open a few weeks. People are still finding out about it. But Dru said she’s already drawing customers from all over the state. Which I guess is the goal.” Mara shrugged her slender shoulders. “I just hope I meet some new people before everybody from Onyx gets wind of it and ends up over here.”
Daniel scanned the equipment, then squared his shoulders. “This is all fantastic, but Dru mentioned something about reserving a private space?”
Mara’s smile broadened again as she pointed toward the opposite corner of the room. “I was saving the best for last. One private playroom, coming up.”
The sign outside the door had indicated it was the Rose Room, and the name was certainly accurate. There were roses in every color imaginable in vases everywhere, on top of a big chest of drawers, on the coffee and end tables surrounding the two low, backless couches. Pillows of cream and pale yellow and pink further softened the décor. Where the walls weren’t paneled in highly polished wood, they were painted a deep raspberry-rose color. Indirect lighting—one very ornate central chandelier, and scores of votives and candle lanterns—lent layers of golden glow to the already warm scene. It was—
“Holy crap. It’s so freaking pretty,” Mara said, startling Delia from her stunned observation of the room.
Well, that was certainly one way to put it. And she had to agree.
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