Sitting at her table on the balcony, she has on a long skirt with a loose, flowing blouse, the warm weather still gracing us with its presence. The hot-pink polish on her toes draws my attention to her delicate feet. I see it out of the corner of my eye as she crosses her legs in the seat next to me. Just beneath the hem of her skirt, I detect more of the telltale signs of the abuse she’s enduring. The instant she catches my stare, she fidgets in her seat, once again veiling the damage he did. The internal war becomes far more than I can handle or keep at bay.
Deciding to address the issue at hand instead of forcing me to ask, she says, “He’d been gone for a while, Bastian. He was a little aggressive in his play last night. I’m fine.” If I hadn’t seen her cloak her pain before, I might believe her.
I just nod my understanding. The waiter comes to take our order at that moment, distracting me from the subject. By the time he leaves, I’ve decided to let it drop. She knows I’m aware. If she wants to share more, she can.
“Are you doing anything tonight? There’s a play opening at the Little Theatre. Tickets are cheap if you want to go.” Her ability to effortlessly change the subject is duly noted.
“Can I take a rain check? Nate and I are going to Charlotte when he gets off work.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I wish I’d kept it to myself.
“What are you guys going to Charlotte for?” she asks, and takes a drink from her straw. Her question is innocent but the answer not so much. Moment of truth: do I lie, give her a vague answer, or tell her the truth? As much as I’d like to be vague, the persona I want to adopt is forthright and honest.
“We are going to a club called The Warehouse.”
She simultaneously uncrosses her legs and spits her tea all over the front of my shirt in surprise. “Shut up! You are not! Bastian, do you have any idea what kind of club that is?” It’s endearing she thinks I’m this naïve, but it’s irritating as well that she’d have reason to think it.
Wiping her tea off me with my napkin, I answer her with what I’m not sure she’s ready to hear. “Yeah, I talked to the club owner for about an hour last week.”
“But why? And why are you going with Nate? Do you just want people to think you’re gay?”
“What do you mean, why? Why does anyone go?”
“Most people go to play, but it’s not your gig, and based on how little you knew when we talked about it a couple months ago, Nate obviously is not involved, either. So, why?” Little Ms. Interrogation here.
“After we talked, I was interested.”
“In what?”
“The lifestyle as a whole. Why are you so shocked?”
“Well, I’ve never had anyone take an interest, much less go to a club.”
“I read everything I can find online and all the books the local bookstores had, which wasn’t a lot by the way.”
“So you’re just going out of curiosity? I’m surprised the club owner was down with that. Normally, clubs are very particular about who they let in.”
“No, I’m not just going out of curiosity, and I’m not going to play. I’m going to meet with the owner about finding a mentor.”
She doubles over with laughter—the kind where you can’t breathe, you’re shaking, tears are rolling down your cheeks, kind of laughter. I wait for her to calm down, genuinely hurt by her response. She sees how her reaction affected me.
“Wait.” She regains her composure before continuing. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.” I refuse to look away from her. I maintain eye contact. This is part of who I want to be. Her reaction can’t sway my decision. I’ll have to change how she sees me over time. This is a step toward doing that. An important one. My gaze remains stoic, stern.
“Any particular reason?” She wipes the remaining tears from her face.
“The more I read, the more interested I became, but there’s only so much a person can learn from a book. There’s the need for practical application. I don’t want to assume a role I haven’t been trained for. The more I dug into my research, the more people talked about having mentors, people who had more experience and were willing to train them. I called a bunch of clubs in Atlanta and Charlotte, and this guy, James, he believes heavily in it. He encourages everyone new to the club to pair up with someone else, not just for the training piece but to facilitate a friend in the lifestyle so newcomers don’t feel alone in their journey.”
“Jesus. You’re really serious about this. Is he going to match you with another sub to work with?” Shot to the fucking heart. In this moment, I wonder if I will ever change her perception of me.
“No. A Dom. He’s going to mentor me himself.”
“I could see you as a switch.” Her head bobs in agreement as she acknowledges it with the same assurance the grass is green.
“No, Sera. Just a Dom.”
Pity fills her eyes—not wonder, not contemplation, but fucking sympathy. “That’s a pretty big for a club owner to take you on. Did you tell him who you are?”
“No. I gave him my name but he didn’t seem to recognize it.” I wasn’t aware this was such an unusual thing for a club owner to do, and he seemed like it was a natural progression and his responsibility as an experienced Master to give back.
“Trust me. He knows who you are. This is not a highly publicized world, Bastian. Club owners don’t let strangers into their venues without heavy vetting, and they sure as hell don’t offer their time unpaid. Members pay dearly to know their identities are protected and curious onlookers aren’t lurking in the club shadows. You got in because of who you are, and the fact he knows you can pay the dues should you decide to join. Don’t fool yourself, Bastian. The Warehouse is the Charlotte elite. Big money in those walls.”
“You act like I’m some A-list actor. No one outside of the art community in our area knows my name.”
“Wakeup call, Bastian. People flew in from all over the world to pay six figures for your paintings not so long ago. You were and always will be the golden boy with a paintbrush. People love your youthful look and the emotion you convey on a canvas, but even more, they love your story. You used to be the prodigy with a stunning wife who had an amazing voice, both successful in your own right. But now, now you’re the tragic artist who made a comeback after vanishing for years. You are your own Cinderella story.”
“I think you glorify some horrible years. I’m not benefiting from my wife’s death.”
“No, you’re benefiting from your ability to recover from a loss that had a profound effect on you. That in itself has merit, but what most people aren’t able to do is grow in their craft. They rest on their laurels, putting out shit they would’ve been ashamed of at the height of their popularity. You came back and your painting took on a new identity. Your work pre-Sylvie doesn’t even look like the same artist post-Sylvie.”
Her words stun me, all of them. I’m doing my best to try to make it day by day, finding a glimmer of hope that takes me to the next morning. I can admit my work has changed, but not so drastically it wouldn’t be recognizable as the same artist.
She interrupts my thoughts when she says, “Look, my point in all of this is you’re more widely known than you’re willing to admit. You got in because of it. What are you hoping to gain from all this?”
“I’m just looking to explore an interest, Sera. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Are you looking for kinky sex?”
“Seriously? Do I even resemble that kind of person to you? What the hell, Sera?”
“No. I’m just taken aback by all this. It seems really sudden. I’m shocked.”
“It’s not all of a sudden. We originally talked about this several months ago. You told me to do some research. I did. I can’t explain what happened, but it woke something inside me. Maybe it’s nothing, but I won’t know until I explore it, and I don’t want to do that blindly and someone get hurt.” I didn’t mean that last part to sound like a slam. She flinched, slightly, but I saw it.
We eat in
relative silence, the rest of the meal awkward. After I pay the bill, we walk back to my house where she offers her goodbyes. Normally, I would try to sway her to stay, talk things out. I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings, but she should be supportive. If this is important, she should want to expose other people, if for no other reason than to open their eyes to different options. I refuse to allow her dismay to ruin my night. I’ve been looking forward to this almost as much as I look forward to seeing Sera.
20
Arriving at The Warehouse, I see it’s aptly named. The industrial look from the outside is very unassuming. There’s nothing giving away what hides inside. The signage on the front of the building simply states the name in a clean, bold font. It’s dusky dark, with no one in sight. The club doesn’t open for another hour, but we wanted to find it while we still had some daylight. I promised Nate I’d feed him for tagging along. He’s a cheap date.
After scoping the building out, we head over to the North Davidson Art District, better known as NODA to the locals, for some of the best fish tacos on the planet. Talk about art, these guys put masterpieces on the plate every single time. I have driven the hour and a half just for dinner. It’s that good.
With a full belly, but no alcohol, we find ourselves in the lobby of a very busy club. While the outside is nondescript, the inside is sensational—an artist’s dream and an architect’s fantasy. The exposed beams, the raw central air system, all of which is metallic, clean. The walls in the lobby are rich, royal blue, with exquisite brown leather furniture that screams comfort. Everything’s oversized and grandiose, appealing to the clientele James caters to. I have to admit it’s likely James knew who I was if the artwork on the walls is any indication of who he is. He’s a collector of fine works, several of which are local.
Just off the lobby are what I’m guessing are locker rooms or changing rooms of sorts. To the left, men, to the right, women; their exits are on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling wall just beyond their entrances. It’s not possible to see anything beyond the wall from where I’m standing, and in order to get into the respective locker rooms, each person has to place their thumb on a reader. The door closes completely between each entrant, meaning everyone clocks himself or herself in, and I’d bet money they have to do the same thing to exit.
No one seems bothered at all by the wait as they chat with other people in line, seeming to have established casual friendships. Controlled. Sera was right. There’s no one in this facility James isn’t personally aware of.
“Bastian?” A voice booms to my right, startling me. I stand in greeting, extending my hand. A warm, unassuming-looking guy, about six feet tall, smiles at me and takes my hand.
“James, I presume.”
“You would be correct.”
Turning toward Nate, I say, “This is my best friend, Nate.”
“Great. Glad you guys could come by tonight. Things are starting to slow down a bit so we should be good to talk in my office.”
Four hours later, Nate and I walk out of The Warehouse. James spent a great deal of time with us, explaining how his mentor program works, membership to the club being mandatory because of the exposure to other clients, then he took us on a tour of the facility. Holy shit, first off, the place is deceiving from the outside. Don’t get me wrong, it looks huge, but you can’t see the basement floor, which doubles its size. The bottom floor is an intricate maze of rooms, some set up for specific types of play, having grouped types of equipment in them, bondage, machines, whips, et cetera, while others simply have beds with eyehooks covering them. The ground floor is more of a huge studio with few walls separating the space. People play publicly, baring all. I wasn’t as surprised as Nate was to see people engaging in sexual activity in the open, but no one has any interest in what others are doing.
There were a few classes underway where people had crowded around, but no one paid any attention to the couples or small groups who were playing together. James points out the sanitation rules along with health requirements. There’s no penetration, oral, vaginally, or anally without condoms. None, not even for married couples. Violating that rule is grounds for immediate termination of your membership and dismissal from the premises. There are security guards roaming the facility ensuring rules are followed, but I never saw one interfere or even interact with someone who hadn’t sought them out. They are truly there to keep play safe.
James has monitors assigned to all new subs. They have to log a certain number of hours of play in the club in order to ditch the shadow. Apparently, subs have a tendency to get into situations they don’t know they can say no to because they don’t have the knowledge or experience they need, so they either have a mentor or a monitor. I’m in total awe of the entire place, everything about it. Every detail is in fine tune, perfectly placed. He spent a great deal of time and money to hone this into a well-oiled machine.
“What the hell was that Bastian?”
“Not your thing?”
“People were having sex on swings in front of a hundred other people. Is that your thing?”
“I’m not after the kinky sex, Nate. You know that. I want what James can teach me about being assertive, more confident, dominance in general. I want to learn to be a leader, not just for Sera but also for me. The last few years have kicked my ass and my self-confidence. I’ve never been super outgoing, but I was always sure of myself. I need that back.”
“If your motivation is truly for self-betterment, I’m all for it. I just want you to be sure before you put that kind of money on the line that there’s not another way to accomplish the same goal.”
“I’m going to think about it for a couple days before committing to anything.” And I will. It’s a large investment. The background checks alone I’m sure cost a fortune, the blood tests another chunk of change. Sera wasn’t kidding about the heavy vetting. I wonder if all clubs are like this or just The Warehouse because of the people they service.
“Keep in mind that means you’ll be coming to Charlotte on a regular basis as well. This isn’t just a hop, skip, and jump down the road. It’s ninety-eight miles from your house to the front door. You’ll need to commit several nights a month for this to be effective and worth the money.”
All are valid points I will have to consider. I’ve never been the type to drop this kind of cash on anything. Sylvie spent weeks convincing me why it was better to own than rent because the thought of taking large sums of money out of savings to put down blew my mind.
“Wasn’t the whole reason for wanting to go out of town to keep Sera from finding out about it?”
“That and I didn’t want to run into her while I was learning.”
“Well, she already knows, and from what I gather, the learning process is years long, it’s not a role you’ll undertake in the near future.”
“Again, I’m not looking to assume the role. I want the confidence a Dom possesses. If the other stuff comes with it, great, but that’s not really what I’m after.”
“But is that what Sera’s after?”
I’ve wondered the same thing. I want to be what she needs, but I don’t think that’s what she currently has. Her needs are twofold: first, to give up control, directed; second, pain. I don’t know enough about her desire for the latter to confidently say I can fill that need, but I did mention it to James. We talked briefly about ways to meet her desire and simultaneously, learn to use the tools of a masochist.
“One step at a time, Nate.”
21
A week later, I hadn’t made a decision about The Warehouse nor did I engage in a conversation with Sera about the night I’d spent there. She hinted over and over at wanting information, but I’ve ignored her attempts to snoop. I need to work through this on my own but she’s relentless in her approach today.
“Come on, Bastian, at least tell me what it was like inside. It’s the elite of the elite around here. Without going somewhere in New York or LA, it doesn’t get any bigger. Except maybe Baltimore, w
hich is just weird in and of itself,” she begs, her need for information cute.
“What do you want to know? I mean it’s gorgeous, but I have nothing to compare it to, so I can’t say it’s better at this or needs improvement here. I can tell you the security is impeccable, the equipment all appears to be brand new, and the focus on health safety is very high.”
“What about the people? Did you recognize anyone?” Her face is eager for knowledge, childlike in wonder.
“You know even if I did, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to share that with you.”
Her pouting is about the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. I resist the urge to place my lips on hers, to feel their warmth on mine. Jesus, the temptation is overwhelming.
“Are you going to join?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I think it would be fun to be able to go play there.”
“You would want to go play with me?” Interesting turn.
“Bastian, you know I love you dearly, but the kind of playing I’m referring to isn’t something you can just pick up in a week. You could really hurt someone.” The irony of her statement is not lost on me. “I don’t have sex in clubs if that’s what you’re wondering. I only play publicly for pain. Someone skilled with a whip or a cat of nine tails can send me soaring. The Warehouse is known for the Masters they have behind leather. So yes, I would love to go play, in that respect.”
“So you want me to join so another man can beat you?” Low blow. Luckily for me, she didn’t take it that way or missed the insinuation altogether. “That’s an expensive endeavor. Why don’t you become a member?”
“I’ve tried, Bastian. I’m on a wait list.” My mouth falls open at her proclamation.
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