The Inner Room

by Claire Thompson

  He helped out Dana as well, who, in her heels, stood a good three inches taller than her spouse. Finally he opened the front passenger door of the cab and pulled out a large black leather messenger bag, which he slung over his shoulder.

  As the cab pulled away, Tony walked toward a metal door and pressed a buzzer beside it. Dana and Marissa stood just behind him. “This is the club?” Marissa said quietly to her friend, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice. The place looked like a dump. The images she had earlier of a dank, stone dungeon with manacles protruding from the walls resurfaced with a vengeance in her mind. What in god’s name had she signed up for?

  “Not to worry,” Dana said as if reading her mind. She reached for Marissa’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s much nicer inside.”

  A voice came over the intercom asking them to state their business. “Master Tony, slave Dana and guest,” Tony said in his deep voice.

  Slave Dana.

  The words sent a shiver down Marissa’s spine. Would she ever be someone’s sex slave? Did she want to be?

  No, her mind insisted. No way.

  Yes, her body whispered fervently.

  The door buzzed and Tony pulled it open, gesturing for the women to enter ahead of him. A set of wide stairs led downward, and the clacking of the women’s heels echoed against the concrete walls. Marissa held tight to the metal railing as they descended. There was a second door at the bottom of the stairs, which was pulled open as they approached.

  A wiry young man with short blond hair dressed wearing only black leather pants and a slave collar ushered them inside. He was holding a clipboard, and he checked something off and looked at them with a smile. “Welcome, Master Tony,” he said, not even glancing toward Dana or Marissa.

  “Good evening, Steven,” Tony replied. Marissa noticed Steven’s nipples were pierced, small silver barbells gleaming against his smooth chest.

  A young woman with long dark hair hanging loose down her back appeared. She was wearing a sheer white dress made of a kind of stretchy lace fabric that did little to hide the fact she was completely nude beneath it. Her feet were bare, and she wore a thick metal chain around her neck. “Lovely to see you, slave Jade,” Tony said.

  “Good evening, Sir,” the girl replied in a quiet, respectful tone. An involuntary shudder moved through Marissa’s frame and her nipples poked hard against the lace of her bra as her mind replaced Jade’s name with her own.

  The young woman led the three of them to a table at the far side of the room, and as they walked, Marissa took in her surroundings. She was quite impressed with the opulence of the place, especially considering the façade of the seemingly rundown building in the nearly deserted neighborhood that housed it. Instead of a medieval stone dungeon, the space looked more like a posh Westchester County country club. The lighting was softly muted, the walls painted a warm, creamy beige, the thickly piled carpeting a soft tan. Instead of iron manacles, oil paintings of lush landscapes and plump, nude women lounging on velvet settees were hung along the walls. Leather sofas and deep, plush chairs were scattered throughout the room in conversational arrangements, and half a dozen small tables were set up near a long bar of polished wood and brass. Soft classical music filled the room, though Marissa couldn’t see evidence of any speakers.

  That was where the comparison to a country club ended, however. Large circles had been cut into the carpet in various spots around the spacious room, and equipment Marissa recognized from the online BDSM training site was set up in each circle. These included whipping posts, medical exam tables, large X crosses and spanking benches.

  “Those are the punishment circles,” Dana explained, following Marissa’s wide-eyed gaze. “That’s where people do public scenes, as you can see.”

  Marissa could barely keep her mouth from hanging open as she struggled to process everything going on around her. As Dana had warned, there were both women and men in various states of undress. A rather large woman brushed by Marissa as they walked toward their table. She was wearing a black leather bustier cinched in at the waist, her ample breasts spilling out over the top. There was a guy in his forties who was completely naked, save for a small cage fitted over his genitals. His hands were loosely cuffed to a thick leather collar around his neck, and he was being led on a leash by a tall, imposing woman with impossibly high heels wearing a full-length black velvet gown.

  A man with a black hood covering his head and face was kneeling on all fours between two seated women, both of whom were resting their stiletto-heeled feet on his bare back and talking over him as if he were no more than a piece of furniture.

  A naked woman was bound to a whipping post in one of the punishment circles, a black blindfold over her eyes, her ass bright red and mottled with bruises. Another woman dressed in a very short black leather skirt and a sheer white silk blouse stood just behind her, smacking the woman’s ass with a long-handled purple riding crop.

  A woman was lying face-up an exam table, her wrists and ankles buckled down at the corners with leather restraints. Four men were gathered around her, each holding a lit candle. Her naked body was covered in splattered red wax, especially her pubic area and breasts, and she whimpered softly each time more droplets of melted wax scalded her skin.

  Neither Tony nor Dana seemed the slightest bit perturbed by any of this as they wove their way through the small crowds clustered around each scene. It was all Marissa could do to keep moving beside them, when all she really wanted to do was stop and stare.

  Once they got to their table, Tony pulled out chairs for both Marissa and Dana. He stood behind Dana and helped her remove her coat. Beneath the coat, Dana wore a dark green satin corset cinched tightly at her long, slender waist. Her small breasts were pushed high in the bodice of the corset, which was cut so low the top half of her pink nipples were showing. She wore a skirt of matching green leather that barely covered the tops of her slender thighs. Marissa knew from seeing her in the gym locker room that Dana was shaved smooth, and she found herself wondering if she was wearing any underwear. Though Dana had a killer body, still Marissa marveled at her friend’s apparent ease and confidence at displaying herself like that in public.

  Yet she had to admit Dana looked spectacular, the effect far sexier than if she’d been merely naked. The deep green of the corset set off her green eyes and auburn hair, and her breasts looked like perfect, ripe peaches, bunched together and just waiting to be tasted.

  “You look stunning,” Marissa breathed, feeling dowdy in comparison in her black cocktail dress.

  “Thank you.” Dana smiled brightly. “Master Tony brought home this lovely corset this afternoon.”

  Tony stroked his wife’s arm, and Marissa could see the love in his eyes. “A gift for my slave girl,” he said. Turning to Marissa, he added, “She’ll earn it tonight.” Leaning down, he reached for the messenger bag he’d set on the floor beside his chair and opened the flap. He pulled out a black plastic container and placed it on the table.

  At that moment, a young woman wearing nothing but a black satin apron with a huge bow at the back appeared beside their table, a small order pad and pen in her hand. Her chest and arms were covered in an elaborate series of tattoos and large gold hoops dangled from her nipples.

  “The usual, Sir?” she asked Tony, not even glancing at Dana or Marissa.

  Tony turned to Marissa. “Do you drink champagne, Marissa?”

  “Yes. I love champagne,” Marissa said, though she was a little confused by the question.

  Tony turned back to the nearly naked waitress. “Yes, Stella,” he said with a nod. “Three mimosas over crushed ice.”

  Stella did a small curtsey. “Yes, Sir. Right away.”

  “I thought there was no alcohol allowed at BDSM clubs,” Marissa said, having heard this somewhere or other.

  “Not at public clubs,” Tony agreed. “And yes, as a rule, you don’t want to mix alcohol with BDSM play. But one glass of champagne won’t hurt us.”

&nb
sp; “And they squeeze their orange juice fresh,” Dana added. “I always have to have at least one mimosa when we come to the club. The champagne is almost an afterthought.”

  “Okay, sounds great.” After all, Marissa certainly wasn’t planning to engage in any BDSM play. And a drink might take the edge off her nerves.

  After the waitress left them, Marissa nodded toward the container Tony had placed on the table. “What’s that?”

  Tony turned the clasp and opened the lid, revealing a black plastic wand with a red tip, and three glass rods, one with a round flat end like a stethoscope, one shaped like a large comb and one shaped like a dental implement.

  “What is all that?” Marissa asked.

  “It’s a violet wand kit,” Dana said, her eyes literally glowing with delight as she stared at the toys.

  Marissa had heard of this type of BDSM sex toy, but she’d never actually seen one. “That’s like electrical shock, right? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  Dana shook her head. “Not if it’s handled correctly.” She smiled warmly at her husband and then stroked one of the glass rods. “At a low setting it feels like tiny champagne bubbles fizzing on your skin. Increase the intensity, and it can be quite a shock.”

  Marissa bit her lip. “Yikes. That’s got to hurt.”

  “That’s the idea, silly. It hurts so good.” Dana grinned but then sobered. “Seriously, though. It’s not really pain, per se. It’s more like intensity. And that’s what we masochists crave the most. Intensity of experience. Pain is just one aspect of intensity.”

  While Marissa thought about this, Tony added, “The wand delivers a spray of electrical sparks onto your skin that excite your nerve endings.” He picked up the black plastic wand and fitted the glass rod with the stethoscope end into the head of the wand.

  “They operate on a low current, high voltage, high frequency electricity to the body,” he continued. He flipped a small switch at the base of the wand and held the glass head close to Dana’s arm. The glass turned a bright purple, tiny sparks of electricity like bolts of lightning flying from the head. “Oooh,” Dana said, shivering, while Marissa gasped in surprise at the unexpected fireworks. It was really quite beautiful.

  “Contrary to what you might think,” Tony said as he held the wand a few inches away from Dana’s arm, “the farther you hold the electrode from your partner’s skin, the sharper the shock.” A small crack of electricity cut the air between them as the wand flashed purple and white, and Dana uttered a small squeal.

  Tony removed the glass electrode and set it carefully back into its foam slot. He reached again into the messenger bag and took out a small, thin-handled whip. Instead of the usual leather, the strands were made of some kind of bright blue material, almost like the fiber optic rods of a light sculpture. “This,” he said with a cruel, sensual smile as he ran his fingers through the blue strands, “is how slave Dana’s going to earn her new corset.”

  “Oh,” Marissa said softly, the word escaping unbidden from her lips as she watched Tony fit the whip handle into the plastic wand.

  “This particular flogger,” he explained, “is made for use with a violet wand. The electrical charge is conducted evenly through each of the forty-five strands of Mylar, delivering an intense prickling sensation on contact. Tonight Dana is going to submit to an electrical flogging, aren’t you, darling?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Dana breathed, her eyes shining.

  The waitress reappeared with their drinks, and Marissa was glad for the distraction. She felt both agitated and deeply excited by the heady atmosphere of the club, and by the erotically-charged connection that existed between Dana and her Master/husband. Dana hadn’t expressly said she was going to scene with her Master that evening, though Marissa supposed she should have expected it.

  The couple moved their heads together until their foreheads were touching. The gesture was somehow more intimate than even a kiss would have been. As Marissa watched them, a vague, undefined longing swept through her, and she thought about Dana’s earlier analogy likening her to a kid with her face pressed up against the glass of a candy store. But this was more than candy, she understood now. For Dana and Tony, and maybe for her as well, this was sustenance of the most basic kind, and she, Marissa, had been unwittingly starved for it all her life.

  Their silent, intense communication completed, Tony and Dana leaned away from each other. Marissa looked quickly away so as not to be caught staring. When she reached for her glass, she saw her hand was shaking slightly. Looking up, she met Dana’s eye. Dana smiled kindly. “I’m really proud of you, Marissa. I know this whole scene is a lot to process for a sub-curious girl like you. Coming here is the first step to a whole new life, if you want it.”

  Tony lifted his glass, and the women followed suit. As they clinked, he said, “To the two loveliest sub girls in Manhattan. Now, let’s go play!”

  Chapter 3

  Late Saturday morning Cam jogged up the steps from the subway and headed along St. Mark’s Place. The heavyset woman waving wildly at him from across the street looked familiar, though it took Cam a moment to place her. Janice was an RN at the hospital who, Cam had already figured out, was something of a gossip, her head always leaned conspiratorially close to a colleague, her eyes darting knowingly as she spread the latest rumor. Cam waved back and continued walking. He could still feel the woman’s eyes on him. He briefly considered moving past his destination, but decided at the last second not to. What the hell, he’d give the old girl something else to whisper about at the water cooler.

  He went down the three steps that led to the door of the boutique. A male mannequin was featured in the window, decked out in leather and chains, a bright red ball gag fitted over his mouth beneath vacant, staring eyes.

  A little bell jingled as Cam entered the small space and Celia looked up from behind the counter, her face splitting into a broad grin. “Hey there, stranger. It’s been way too long. Where’ve you been? I was afraid maybe you’d found a better place to get your gear. Maybe even online, god forbid.”

  Celia’s hair was pink today, gelled into a crown of spiky points around her head that matched the metal spikes of her dog collar. She wore a black, very low cut leather bustier and when she stepped out from behind the counter Cam saw the rest of her ensemble—a pink satin miniskirt and high black leather boots. Somehow on her, it worked. She held out her arms and Cam moved into her embrace, leaning down to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “I would never abandon you, Celia, you know that. You and Cat are my go-to girls for all my gear. I’ve just been really busy, is all. I got a new job and I’ve had to pull a few weekend shifts as the new kid on the block.”

  “Okay, then,” Celia said with a mollified nod. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I’m interested in a new flogger. Something in leather, not suede. I need something with more sting. And I could use a couple more canes. I broke one the other day.”

  “On somebody’s ass?”

  Cam nodded. “Yeah. The guy had buns of steel and kept telling me to hit him harder. He could definitely take it, but obviously the cane couldn’t. “

  “Oooh, lucky guy.” Celia moved closer again. “You can break a cane on my ass anytime you like, sugar,” she purred teasingly.

  “Somehow I don’t think Mistress Cat would approve,” Cam teased back.

  “Ah, but she’s out of town. And you know what they say…when the cat’s away…”

  Cam just shook his head, though he was smiling. Celia loved to flirt, but she was one hundred percent gay and never scened with men, period. “Okay, okay,” Celia said, pretending defeat. “If I can’t get you to cane me, at least I can get you to buy something. Let me show you what we’ve got. I have some fabulous new floggers by Adam Sands, that Australian dude who does everything by hand.”

  Cam took his time examining the floggers, weighing the workmanship and quality of the leather against cost as he tried to make his selection. The club actually provid
ed gear to its Master Trainers, of which Cam was one, but he liked to have his own things, especially when it came to flogging. A good flogger became the extension of your arm, almost a part of you, and an intimate knowledge of its heft, balance and stroke was essential in Cam’s book.

  Someday, he thought with a sudden wistfulness, he would find his own sub girl, and together they would choose their own gear, gear they would keep at home. This girl, no, this woman, would be strong and confident, successful in her professional life and happy in herself, but sexually submissive to Cam. She was out there somewhere, he knew she was, and he was willing to wait for her.

  He’d had several D/s relationships with women over the years, some more successful than others, none that lasted beyond a few months. He’d pretty much run the gamut, from super intense to nearly vanilla. On one end of the spectrum was Nicole. With her, the BDSM sex had been hot, and there was no erotic torture he could devise that she didn’t fully embrace. It had been great, at first, but after a while Nicole had needed more—more than he was willing or able to give. She wanted him to shave her head and to brand her ass with his initials. She wanted to sleep in a box underneath his bed in shackles. She wanted him to use her as his toilet, and to verbally humiliate her while he pissed into her mouth. While he understood her deep-seated need for such complete and total objectification, that wasn’t what he was looking for, and he had to break things off.

  Then there was Coleen, beautiful, vivacious and smart as a whip. She’d seemed excited and eager when he’d first introduced the concept of BDSM play into their sex life. But eventually he’d figured out that for her it was just a game, a fun kink that proved how sexually free and open she was. When Cam tried to take it deeper, she balked and ran, and he let her go, aware she wasn’t the one.

  Over the years he’d found himself pulling back from seeking a love match with a submissive woman, or any woman for that matter. It wasn’t that he didn’t want love, but he’d decided to let it find him. When the connection was right, he’d know it. Meanwhile, he had the club, and the satisfaction he derived from training. For now, that was enough.