Intimate Bondage

by John Flynn

  “Yeah, right,” he groaned.

  “I already have a boyfriend,” she lied, “but you and I have something more special than that. You and I are friends.”

  “Swell,” he replied. He adjusted his glasses, which had slipped down to the end of his nose, by pushing up on the center bar. “I haven’t even been out on a date with you and you’re already reading me the ‘let’s be friends’ speech.”

  Kate smiled. “Okay, then,” she said, “why don’t we catch a movie when my investigation is all over?”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding,” she reassured him. “But you have to promise me something.”

  “Sure, anything.”

  “No more stalking,” Kate said, in no uncertain terms. She watched the excitement in Lenny’s face turn sour. “I don’t need someone looking out for me. I’m a big girl, and I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. Besides, I would hate for my partner or one of the other members of the SFPD to mistake you for our suspect, and put a couple of bullets into you.”

  Lenny shrugged. “Okay.”

  She looked at him for a fleeting moment, engaging his eyes, then glanced away. “Now I’m going to go back inside, and finish that drink with my friends. You should go home, and get a good night’s rest.”

  He took a few steps toward his car, and said, “I hope he appreciates you.”

  “Who?”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  Kate nodded, noncommittally. “He tries.”

  Lenny looked puzzled for a moment then shrugged broadly. “Because if you were my girlfriend, you’d never have to do a thing. I’d take really good care of you.”

  “I’m sure that you would,” she replied, smiling faintly.

  Kate opened the exit door, and felt the whooooosh of the cold, night air as she pushed her way back into the bar.

  THE BRIGHT LIGHTS of the big city illuminated a narrow path through the Tenderloin that the beautiful redhead followed as she walked past several noisy bars and strip joints. She wore a long, black trench coat, and relied on dark sunglasses and a black fedora to cloak her features in shadow. She strode with a purpose along the sidewalk, despite the occasional panhandler, drunk or prostitute that got in her way.

  A john driving a Mercedes convertible pulled up beside her, and honked his car horn in an attempt to get her attention. She ignored him, and continued walking. “Hey, baby, do you want a date?” he asked.

  The redhead continued walking, without a response. She acted as if she hadn’t heard a word or seen anything.

  “Bitch!” the john yelled at her, then stepped on the gas and sped away.

  At the corner of Market and Van Ness, she crossed the street, and headed for the South of Market neighborhood or SoMa, in club parlance. For those who truly knew the inside scoop of San Francisco’s nightlife, the area nicknamed SoMa had long been home to the City’s trendiest bars and nightclubs. In the daytime, the neighborhood appeared to be an eclectic mix of warehouses, auto-repair shops, furniture showrooms, artist’s lofts, residential hotels and technology companies. Many major software and technology companies were headquartered there, including Wired, Sega of North America, Twitter, Advent Software, and the CNET Networks.

  But at night, some of the warehouses served as home to the City’s budding underground rave, punk and jazz music scene. Private clubs that catered exclusively to San Francisco’s gay and lesbian communities and the growing number of alternative lifestyle groups thrived with names like the Temple Nightclub, Tabu, the Glas Kat, Oasis, Slims and the Warfield.

  Red passed by several of the other clubs to reach the entrance to an old factory building that had been converted into a nightspot known as the Black Rose. The Black Rose was a private membership social club that catered to mature, open-minded adults interested in exploring alternative lifestyles, which included dominance and submission, bondage and discipline, fetishism, cross-dressing, and voyeurism and exhibitionism, to name a few. People of any sexual orientation were welcome, and just about any sexual activity between consenting adults was acceptable. In exchange for admittance, the only requirement was that anyone who attended a Black Rose event agreed not to hold the club or any other lifestyler liable for injuries or damages that resulted directly or indirectly from attending the event.

  She slowed her pace only long enough to nod at the bouncer who guarded the entrance, and then walked in through the front door.

  No sooner had she emerged from the entrance into the dark, cavernous interior, than she was blasted by the earsplitting music the deejay had seemingly spun into a primitive life-form of its very own. It was as if the musical notes themselves had suddenly come alive and were celebrating their newfound mortality with some ancient tribal dance, vibrating up and down the walls and banging on the floor. In turn, they were joined by the screams and shouts of hundreds of revelers in leather and black lace, bumping and grinding, stomping up and down and thrashing to the music.

  The cacophony of sounds battered her like a gale force wind, and she felt she had to shoulder her way through the storm to gain access to the next floor. The intense frenzy of her fellow lifestylers—some of them grim-faced and desperate to make some kind of human connection—emboldened her to keep moving.

  At one time, the Black Rose had been a factory. Its modern design preserved vestiges of the building’s industrial past. The sixty-foot-high ceilings with unique steel barrel trusses were brought down to human scale with soaring, sculptural arches that supported the hundred-foot wide, thirty-two-foot high media wall. The rock and roll grid scaffolding against the wall featured individual cages, each of which contained dancers or performers bumping and grinding in concert with video projections. On the first level, revelers crowded the dance floor, while on the second level, the very upscale martini bar served drinks to those seated on plush seating in the huge lounge that was built around the state-of-the-art sound and light system.

  At the highest level, the VIP lounge served the club’s highest rollers with several dozen BDSM-themed private suites and one large group area for friends to enjoy more intimate moments together. Moving from one level to the next was far more difficult than it seemed.

  Struggling, Red finally managed to cross the dance floor, and climbed one of the two large staircases to the mezzanine level for a bird’s eye view of the main floor. She lingered there only for a moment. Just long enough to remove her trench coat and fedora, and hand them off to the coat-check girl. She shook out the long red tresses of her hair, and then continued, in full dominatrix attire, toward a private elevator which led up to the third floor.

  Two large, black bouncers in leather attire greeted her at the third floor. They were both shirtless, with beautifully-sculpted upper torsos that suggested they were professional bodybuilders. They escorted her, like some witch queen or dark goddess, to one of the private rooms. She was well known by the Black Rose staff.

  Along the way, they passed by the group area where men and women, men and men, and women and women engaged in some form of sadomasochistic play.

  At the door to her private room, she paused.

  The music from the dance floor continued to pulsate, but was nowhere near as loud or obnoxious as it had been two floors below.

  She caught sight of her guest and smiled, whispering to one of her escorts. The escort nodded his acknowledgement, and both he and his fellow bodybuilder departed.

  She entered the room, and regarded her guest. He was an overweight man in his forties, naked except for a leather G-string, kneeling on the floor with his head bowed in submission. She sat down in the chair opposite him, and raised her black leather boot to his lips. Without a word from her, he took her boot in hand, and kissed it.

  “Thank you, Mistress,” he said, groveling before her.

  She reached across the table for her whip, and gathered its long l
ength into a curl. The night was still very young.

  Chapter Four

  KATE LIVED IN A small, studio apartment at Bayside Village in the heart of San Francisco’s hip South Beach. She had always wanted to live in one of the city’s trendiest neighborhoods—a few steps from the water’s edge—and when her marriage ended so tragically, she’d called in every last favor that was owed to make her dream a reality. But she soon learned that dreams often make poor realities. No matter how hard she tried to enjoy her early morning strolls along the Embarcadero or the Giants’ games at nearby AT&T Park or the convenient shopping for fruit and vegetables at the Bayside Market, she still felt empty.

  The loss of her daughter had left such a tremendous hole in her life that she often felt guilty watching the sailboats out on the bay from her third-floor balcony. She’d struggled with that sense of loss for over a year, crying herself to sleep at night and spending long hours during the day in the police psychologist’s office talking about feelings that she had long since forgotten. Then, one day, she woke up and made a conscious decision to start enjoying life again. She put away everything in her apartment that reminded her of Stephanie, and went out of her way to help the first stranger she met.

  Kate smiled to herself, remembering, as she entered the darkened lobby of her apartment building. Lenny had been the first stranger she’d met, and what a disaster that turned out to be. She trudged up the dimly lit stairway to her front door, and recalled that she had met him, just about there, carrying boxes to his brand-new apartment. While she was digging her keys out of her pocket, she felt a hand on her shoulder and she jumped. “Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed.

  Lenny had stepped out of the shadows and held a small package in one hand.

  “I’m sorry. Did I scare you?” he asked, with bright, innocent eyes, totally unaware that he had frightened her nearly to death. Provolone may have had a near-genius intelligence quotient, but when it came to personal relationships, he was totally clueless.

  “You should never sneak up on someone you know carries a sidearm,” she said, breathing easier. “That’s how accidents happen. Didn’t I just warn you about that earlier?”

  “Kate, you could never hurt me,” he replied. “We’re friends.”

  “In the heat of the moment, anything is possible. Trust me. I know that for a fact.”

  Lenny stared at her for a moment, disbelieving. “You’re too good of a cop to make mistakes.”

  Kate shook her head slowly. If only that were true, her daughter would still be alive today. She unlocked the door of her apartment, but did not enter. She stood in the doorway to bar him entrance. “Lenny, it’s been a long day, and all that I want to do is climb into my pajamas and go to sleep.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what I am doing here?”

  “No, I already have a pretty good idea.”

  “Well, you’d be wrong,” he replied, turning up his nose, annoyed, seeming more hurt than angry. Finally, Provolone handed her the small package. “Somebody came by for you earlier, and dropped this off. If you’re too tired to open the package, I can always tell you what it is.”

  Kate wanted to ask him when he had found the time to intercept her package, considering that Lenny had spent most of the day following her, but then she thought better of it. Carefully, she opened the paper wrapping, and produced a hardcover book that was all too familiar: The Master-Slave Relationship: A Study in Duality by John P. Monroe, Ph.D. She took a long time to look at the author’s photograph on the back page before she reacted.

  “Kate, had I known you were into bondage and discipline,” he said, the words sounding more like an admonishment, “I might have tried a completely different approach with you.”

  “Did you get a good look at the person who left it?”

  Lenny thought for a moment. “No, it was much too dark.”

  “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  “He seemed to be dressed mostly in black, you know, like the Dark Knight. Only without the cape.”

  “Was there anything distinctive about him?” she persisted.

  “Not that I can remember,” he replied. Lenny thought about it, then it was as if a lightbulb went on over his head. He added, “You think this guy’s the ‘Angel of Death’ killer, don’t you?”

  “Good night, Lenny.”

  “You know, I can help you catch him,” he said eagerly.

  “Good night,” she said, finally closing the door.

  Kate walked into her studio apartment, and for the first time, she noticed what a Spartan existence she lived. She had very few furnishings, and what she did have looked like they had come from a thrift store. A table, a lamp, a couple of chairs, a sofa and a bed, that was it.

  She laid facedown upon the twin-sized bed, and pulled a pillow up under her chin to elevate her head for reading. The last thing that she wanted to do was read a book about BDSM. She found the subject matter abhorrent, but she also needed to find out how Monroe had gotten to her. She felt him under her skin, like an itch that she just couldn’t scratch. There must have been a reason, and she was bound and determined to find out what it was. She opened the cover of Monroe’s book, and started reading:

  BDSM, an acronym for bondage and discipline, domination and submission, and sadism and masochism, is one of the last, most misunderstood subcultures in modern society. When the majority of people hear terms like “bondage,” “domination,” or “sadism,” they immediately form a mental image of a medieval torture chamber with its whips and chains and other torture devices. They are unable to look beyond their preconceived notions and stereotypes to recognize the deeper mental and emotional aspects of the BDSM lifestyle.

  While it is true that most of those who take pleasure from this alternative lifestyle enjoy elements such as bondage, discipline, and sadism in their sexual lives, BDSM is primarily emotional rather than physical because of the deep levels of trust that are required. Few mundanes rarely see the profound emotional attachment that occurs when one person surrenders his or her power totally to another person. Sexual intercourse or some other sexual expression may play a part in the power exchange, but there are many healthy lifestylers that engage in some form of bondage or discipline in which sex has no place in their activity at all.

  In most circles, however, BDSM is a form of erotic play, and is characterized by the fact that partners assume harmonizing yet unequal roles. For those who enjoy bondage, for example, one partner constrains the other using rope or handcuffs or collars, and then they both engage in some pre-arranged sex play. For those who prefer sadomasochism or S&M, the sadistic partner inflicts pain or humiliation on the masochistic partner who enjoys pain or humiliation. In certain instances, partners will switch roles but this tends to be very rare.

  And while BDSM can include scenarios in which chains and whips are employed in a basement dungeon, much of it can be subtle and soft, such as lathering up with whipped cream, gently tugging on a partner’s hair or even tickling during foreplay or sexual intercourse.

  Kate stopped reading, and thought about this for a moment. Something didn’t make sense to her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She made a mental note, and then returned to the book.

  For the most part, BDSM relationships are all about building and deepening the level of trust between partners; in fact, these relationships require a deeper level of trust than most conventional “vanilla” (non-BDSM) relationships. For example, in traditional Dominance and submissive (or D/s) relationships, the Dom (masculine) or Domme (feminine) or “Master,” in certain parlance, has the responsibility for the mental, physical and/or emotional control of the submissive (or sub) or “Slave,” in certain parlance, while the submissive complies to or surrenders that control to his or her dominant. Some people like to act out sexual scenes through dominance and submission, while others enjoy role-playing as well as
body worship, female dominance and servitude fantasies.

  As part of a D/s relationship between a dominant man and a submissive woman, the Dom may discipline the sub when she has done something wrong, such as failing to keep the house clean, and may employ a single-tail whip as a form of punishment to control the “undesirable” behavior. (A single-tail whip has but one single leather strand and requires a great deal of skill and practice so as to avoid causing permanent harm to the person on which it is used.) The submissive readily submits to the whip when she is told to because she trusts the Dom won’t cause her actual physical damage, but only to provide a punitive measure to control her poor behavior.

  Most people who fail to understand the emotional aspects of the lifestyle would simply see a man beating a woman over her poor housekeeping skills, but that is far from the case. While it is true the Dom has disciplined his sub for her poor housekeeping skills, notably with a whip, the Dom has not caused his sub any unwelcome pain. She has consented to his dominance over her, and the discipline was completely consensual and enjoyed by both parties.

  If the comfort level is ever breached, both partners have a safety word or phrase, such as “stop immediately,” that they can use in order to avoid someone getting seriously injured. Safety words, better known as “safe words,” are discussed prior to any activity. With the use of a safe word, submissives can always stop a role-playing session if anything becomes too much for him or her to handle or if activities move beyond acceptable limits.

  The submissive always has the power to say “no,” and therein lies one of the great paradoxes of D/s. To the outside world, the dominant appears to be the one in control, but the reality of the situation is that the submissive is the one who maintains absolute control because she or he can terminate their activity—or even a relationship—at any point with a single word or phrase.