Being a part of the club I belong to means I can’t divulge any information about myself or any other members. We’re an eclectic group of men, who happen to all be wealthy. With that in common, we all have to hide our secret lives. After all, who would want a mayor, a banker, or a statesman who’s into such dark things?
I was astonished by the faces I saw upon visiting the club for the first time. Men from all over the U.S. come to the club. Auctions are especially busy, as not only men come from everywhere, but so do the women who are auctioned off.
Personally, I’ve never bought a woman. I’ve never had an ongoing thing with any of the subs. I prefer one-time scenes. I follow up with the women I’ve played with for about a week’s time, then it’s on to other things. Things like other women with other needs, fetishes, and desires.
Studying techniques extensively has earned me the reputation for being one of the best Doms if one is looking for an excellent experience in bondage. My kinks are bondage, suspension, cupping, impact play, and power exchange, all of which I am particularly good at.
More than once, I’ve been called driven— in business, in bed, and in my personal kinks. If it interests me, I dive into it head first and don’t come up until I’m saturated in knowledge.
I’ve had three serious relationships in my life. Two of them ended because of my incessant drive. Janet, in college, said I was too into my studies and not enough into her. So, she dumped me.
Leah, my second girl, lived with me when I first started working in the finance world. I had to devote most of my time to work. I wanted to move up quickly. After a year, she called it quits too, another woman who told me I didn’t spend enough time with her.
Tracy was a gold digger who lured me into what she thought might be a trap. It was the first year I broke the billion-dollar mark on my yearly income. The daughter of a grocery store janitor, Tracy wanted more out of life. I asked her to move into my spanking new mansion with me. I showered her with gifts and tried my best to make time for her.
Tracy was one beautiful woman. Long blonde hair with golden streaks hung to her tiny waist. Bright blue eyes spoke to my heart, telling me I’d found an angel. But she turned out to be a demon instead.
Not wanting to get into having a family at that time, I was an avid condom user. When she came to me with a pregnancy test stick that had a couple of lines in it, she told me she was pregnant. With my child!
I’m no idiot; I know condoms aren’t one hundred percent effective, but she had also told me she was taking a birth control shot. Anyone can imagine how I felt: shocked, as well as disbelieving.
Tracy was furious when I took her to a doctor and stayed with her as she took the pregnancy test at the physician’s office. It came back negative, and I knew then and there that the woman was trying to force me into marriage. I had no choice; I dumped her.
And after her, I’ve had no desire to deal with women for an extended period of time again. I’m not broken. I’m just too busy to want to deal with all that comes with a relationship.
At the club, I can find women who want whatever I do at the time, anything from letting out aggression to cuddling and fulfilling that need. And not one of the women I’ve been with since joining the club has asked anything more from me than I am willing to give. A relief is what it is.
No games are played. In our world, we communicate far more than in the normal world, the world with innuendos, cat and mouse shenanigans, and downright lies to get into relationships that are racked with turmoil.
Women have been taught things by society that go against nature. I never realized that until I found the BDSM world. Things like fighting hard to be above men, a thing that’s insane, have been shoved into their minds.
Women and men are different. We were put here to serve different purposes. There isn’t one of us who is better than the other. And one cannot exist without the other. Society has interfered with the natural order of things. And I, for one, am tired of dealing with women who fight nature.
A sense of calmness took me over soon after beginning this lifestyle. There’s no arguing, no manipulations, no flirting to get into a woman’s panties now. That shit is history. In the club, I can go up to any woman I’d like to, as long as she doesn’t belong to a man who prefers her to be with only him, and I can be frank with her. I can tell her what I’d like to do with and to her, and she’s free to accept it or not.
If she’s into it, then we discuss every last detail about what we want to exchange with one another and plan out our scene. The planning is like foreplay. One gets hot and horny while discussing the details. Keeping our hands to ourselves can be hard as we describe what we want. But I prefer to hold back any physical connection until we get into our scene. It builds anticipation and makes for a better session.
A rap on the darkly stained oak door to the private room takes me out of my thoughts. “Come in.”
Grant pushes the door open. He’s got his arm around a tall, lithe brunette with tons of makeup on. “Hey, Pierce, this one here wants someone to watch us. You game?”
I slide off the bed and pull on my black lounge pants. “Sure. Am I a loud member of the audience or a quiet creeper?”
“Loud,” she tells me as I make my way to them. She strokes my cheek as she peers into my eyes. “My, you are a looker. And that body. Mmmm.”
Taking her hand away from my face, as I don’t allow touch until we’re in the act, I let her know, “If you like what you see, we can talk sometime soon about what you need, baby.”
“I need you,” she whispers, making my groin thump.
“We’ll see how well you take what my friend dishes out before you and I talk about what it is you need.” I step to one side and allow Grant to lead the party to wherever he has planned.
Grant winks at me. “Perhaps you could show me your flogging technique on her if she’s all right with that. I’ve heard you’ve developed it so it’s better than most Doms’.”
The way the woman, wearing only a thin, white, silk robe, looks over her shoulder at me, tells me she’d like that.
“Sure, I can show you.”
“I cannot wait,” she purrs.
A growl fills my throat as I think about how she’s about to feel. “Baby, we’re about to take you to the Amber Zone.”
* * *
Jade
The night is long. I toss and turn most of it. Dreams of whips and chains fill the hours, along with men in dark shadows who call out for me to stop running.
Getting out of bed, I rub the sleep from my eyes and make my way to the shower. My flat is small, and I’m tired of looking at the same walls each day. Summer is nearly here, and I want to go on holiday somewhere, get out of my country for a couple of months and see some other place.
The water’s hot, making steam fill the tiny water closet. Steeping into the standup shower, my body jerks as the heated water hits it. “Ow!” I turn down the heat and make the water’s temperature more compatible with my skin.
Memories of the dreams which plagued me bounce around in my head. In them I was different. I was unafraid, yet not allowing myself to be drawn in by the husky, deep voices of the men.
The plum shampoo smells great and helps to wake me up. After a shot of something with caffeine in it, I should be good to go. It’s the weekend, and I have nothing to do but study for my finals. One more week of school, then I’ll be free.
I’m not one of those creatures who freaks out over finals. I know my stuff, as I pay attention in class and have an honest interest in the subject matter. That always helps.
Turning off the water, I step out and towel off. Throwing on a fluffy pink robe, I wrap the towel around my hair in a turban-like fashion and make my way back into my bedroom. A set of sweats will do for my day of studying and chilling out.
After getting dressed, I stroll out to the kitchen to make some coffee and pop a bagel into the toaster. Taking the cream cheese out of the fridge, I notice my laptop sitting on the kitchen co
unter where I left it last night.
Before I went to bed, I told myself that I’d forget about trying to find anyone to answer my BDSM questions. The realization that no one would waste his time with me settled into my head.
The dreams have sparked my insatiable curiosity once again and I find myself drawn to the silver laptop. I open it and turn it on. It buzzes and whirrs as it comes to life.
My attention is taken away from the device as the toaster pops up my bagel and I set about pouring a cup of coffee and getting my little breakfast ready to eat. Sitting at the table, I take my first bite and look at my laptop again.
“Oh, what the hell.” I get up and grab it, placing it on the tabletop and typing in the search engine I like to use when doing research.
Tapping in a simple ‘BDSM society,’ I sit back and let the engine find something for me to read while I eat half of my bagel and sip the stout black coffee. A directory of sites comes up on the screen, and I tap the first one. A list appears at the top of the page. The title explains they’re things used to play with. The first item is a spreader bar. The picture looks innocuous enough. But the description says the bar can be made of metal or wood, and it’s used to keep the submissive spread open. It can be utilized on either the wrists or the ankles, and it can even be hung from the ceiling.
“Oh, my!”
Why on Earth would anyone willingly be held in that position?
Oh, well. On to the next thing: medical restraints. A set of four small leather belts is used to hold a person to the bed. I have to ask myself: if it’s all so great, why does one have to be bound to the bed?
Next, I see something called a monoglove. The poor girl has her arms behind her back and is wrapped with a leather glove-like thing. She’s helpless to move her arms. Again, I must ask myself, why?
Not only does it look constricting and uncomfortable, it seems silly to me. Does the Dom need to keep his sub’s hands away from him or something?
Moving on, I find a muzzle gag, a penis gag, and a ring gag; they all look more than a bit uncomfortable. I’m left wondering if I would actually choke if the penis gag was put into my mouth and strapped there. I definitely think I would!
A medieval-looking device is next. It’s used to hold a person’s nose, pulling it backward so their head is pulled back and their mouth opens. It’s called a nose hook, and I really have no idea why it would be considered a sexual device. It looks like a thing one would use to get a child to accept medicine when they fight about taking it.
“Oh! I get it now!” A blush heats my cheeks as I think about being forced to open my mouth and having a man’s cock placed into it.
If I were a man, though, I still wouldn’t trust the object to stop my submissive from clamping down on my dick. And if she has to be forced to accept it, then why’s she there in the first place?
I just keep finding more questions to ask!
Plastic wrap is next on the list, and I see that it’s used to wrap up the sub like a mummy. How inexpensive that is, and how odd that anyone thought of that. I can hear the odd couple now: “Honey, can you get the plastic wrap from the kitchen? I think I’ll wrap it around you tonight so I can have my way with you.”
And the daft woman would run off to fetch the item without a thought in her empty head. No, I just don’t get it at all!
Something called a posture collar is next on this insane list. It’s just like the white collars one wears when they have a neck injury. Perhaps it’s used to aid in the protection of the neck when being beaten like an animal. The woman who has it on looks equally as uncomfortable as any person I’ve seen wearing one because they had to.
So, I am left with more questions than I previously had, and my curiosity is banging on my brain to get the answers it requires. But I close the laptop and try to focus on what I really need to be doing, studying for my finals.
The chair I’m sitting in is made of wood and not comfortable in the least, with its rigid back. Studying goes out the window as I close my eyes and imagine being strapped to the chair with leather medical restraints. A wide posture collar wrapped around my neck makes me sit up straight. A spreader bar holds my legs open and a monoglove pins my arms behind my back. Even the fantasy is constricting and awkward. I open my eyes and laugh as I think about letting anyone do such things to me.
And those things aren’t anywhere nearly as horrible as the whips and chains. My mind is right back where it’s been for the past several months: bondage, brutality, and why anyone would allow that to happen to them. What type of beasts want to do that to someone?
In the romance novels, women easily fall in love with their tormentors. Why?
If a man did even half of the things to me that I’ve read about, I think I’d kill him in his sleep and not have an ounce of guilt over it. To fall in love with such a beastly person is a thing I cannot imagine.
With the first sting of the whip, I’d vow to kill the motherfucker. I’m sure I would. A Dom would have to use a muzzle or gag on me, as I’d threaten his very existence as he tortured me. And when he set me free, which he’d have to do eventually, well, he’d be the one running scared. Of that, I am certain.
Perhaps I’d be better suited as the dominator. But then again, I could never bring myself to hit a person. Hurting someone’s feelings is a thing I hate. Actually hurting someone physically isn’t a thing I could do or condone.
So how am I supposed to talk to a person who actively does these things without judging them?
If I ask a question such as, “How does it make you feel to hit a woman?” and get a truthful answer, then what will I do?
If a man were to tell me that he gets joy out of hitting a woman, then I’d detest him. A man who bound a woman, then hit her and took her sexually, well, he’d be a person I couldn’t stand.
So what the hell am I doing? Why am I thinking about trying to talk to someone who I think is evil? What the hell is wrong with me? And what would my family think of me for even contemplating this?
Sitting back, I try to rationalize my thoughts. Like a reporter, I don’t have to agree with anything when I’m trying to get information. I can ask questions, get my answers, and move on from the monster.
It’s not as if I’m going to ask some Dom to take me on and show me what happens in their dark world. I’d never do that!
My hand moves to the laptop and pulls it open. It’s like my will has taken over as I type ‘BDSM Clubs’ into the search engine. My fingers hesitate as I see the first link to a club with an actual website. It’s called “The Dungeon of Decorum”, and I click it.
Looking over the page that opens, I find a message board and type in Is there anyone in this club who’d like to help me learn more about the real world of BDSM?
Now to see if anyone wants to respond …
* * *
Pierce
Birds chirp, waking me from a deep sleep. Blinking my eyes to shield them from the bright sunlight that’s pouring through my pale green, sheer- curtained window, I stretch and yawn with the onset of the weekend. With no plans made, I think I’ll make myself a healthy breakfast of oatmeal and wheat toast, then head to the gym. Maybe I’ll just let the day take me wherever it wants to.
Moving to the bathroom, I turn on the shower, letting the steamy water heat the cold tiles. Multiple jets shoot the water out, hitting almost the entire surface of the tiled walls. Padding over to the sink, I brush my teeth, floss, then rinse with mouthwash.
Into the shower I go, pouring an expensive shampoo I found online last week into my palm. It smells like leather and sandalwood, making me feel exceptionally masculine. In no time at all, I’m bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and dry off, then dress in casual clothing. Jeans, a T-shirt, and running shoes will suffice.
Heading downstairs to the kitchen, I find the fridge well-stocked. Edith, my house manager, has made sure I’m ready to cook for myself through the weekend, like I always do. I give the staff every weekend off. I prefer to be alone in my hom
e when I’m off. They come in after I leave for work each weekday and are gone before I come home.
During the week, I take my meals in town. Most of the time, I get home around eight and usually hit the hay pretty early. I’m a faithful subscriber to the idea that early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. So far, it’s worked wonders for me!
After making my breakfast, I take it to the table and open up my laptop to see what’s going on around Portland this weekend. As always, I check the club’s website first to see if any of the subs have posted anything I might be interested in.
The name Jade Thomas is the first thing I see as I scan the message board. I’ve never seen that name on here before. And she’s asked a question.
Is there anyone in this club who’d like to help me learn more about the real world of BDSM?’
“Jade Thomas,” I say out loud. “And what does this young lady want to know, I wonder?”
Without hesitation, I ask my own question, What do you want to know more about our world for?
I begin to eat my oatmeal as I wait to see if she’ll answer me. It takes no time before I see her response. Just curious. And is your real name Dr. Power?
Laughing, I type back, No, we don’t use our real names on this site. But I bet you did, Jade Thomas.
Eating my toast, I watch the screen, eager to see her reply.
That is my real name. What’s your real name? You see, I’m looking for a person who will be honest with me about the goings on in the BDSM scene. If you can’t be honest enough to tell me your name, then I shouldn’t waste any more of your time.
Thinking about the fact that she might be wasting my time, I ask, Where are you from, Jade?
She’s quick to answer, The United Kingdom. If you’re worried about me outing you to society or something like that, you needn’t worry.
“A Brit,” I say to myself. She’s far enough away, I doubt her knowing my real name would hurt a thing. I type in, Pierce Langford.
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