Hours later, after much thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m going to work on me. I am going to explore the lifestyle and see if it is even what I truly desire, then and only then will I make a decision on Jackson, if I still want him that is and if he still wants me.
The whiskey burns going down my throat. It shouldn’t as much as I’ve had this past week. I don’t remember what day it is, the time or even month at this point. What does time matter? When Marguerite is gone? What does anything matter when my Maggie isn’t anywhere in sight. The promise of her kept my heart beating and now, now she’s just an image I am trying to grasp onto.
The phone rings in my hand and I roll my eyes before ignoring the call. Jarrod and Amalie, the two nosiest people I have ever come into fucking contact with. If they aren’t calling me then they’re trying to corner me at the games to talk about my feelings. Fuck that. The only feelings I want to discuss are for Maggie’s ears only.
The whiskey bottle tumbles from my hand and I snort as it rolls across my living room.
I’m a fucking mess.
I try to stand, swaying as I do, and walk into my bathroom. I look around at my eyes catch the tub. I wonder if Marguerite would have liked this tub? Would she have wanted to fill it with girlie smelling bubbles and relax inside alone or would she have wanted me to join her? I wouldn’t have let her bathe alone. Fuck that, if she’s naked I’m going to be right there with her, making her come.
I sink to my knees like the fucked up pussy I am and I scrub my eyes hoping the pain will keep me from crying. I miss her. I miss her softness. Her smell and her taste. I wish she would answer my calls so I could fix this. I wish that I had big enough balls to march over there, throw her over my shoulder and make her realize how much she needs me, with my cock.
I AM DRESSED IN MY skin tight leather skirt and matching leather bustier. The clothes are wearing me, I am not wearing the clothes. My body feels like it is encased, but I still feel sexy. The high heels on my feet click against the hardwood floor, my long blonde hair is hanging like a rope down my right shoulder in a braid, and my makeup heavy, but not overpowering. This is my third time in this particular club, but it feels like the first time all over again. I visited orientation a few days ago and I hope that I remember all of the rules. This night is different from the first night I had attended. This is Masters Night. A theme night.
It’s been a month since I got back to the city. Good, bad, or indifferent, I belong in New York. It is my home. One evening in Las Vegas proved that my only friends are here. While I’m still angry with Jackson, I don’t want to leave the only place I have ever known contentment.
The city is where I grew and evolved from the starry-eyed girl to the realist woman I am now.
I spent three weeks ignoring the phone calls, texts, and voicemails that filled my phone. Calls from Jackson, Jarrod, and Amalie. They are the only ones who know I have been hurting. I want to forgive Jackson for his omission, but I’m not exactly sure how. I feel like if I just forgive him, then I am repeating the life I had with Sammy. I don’t want to be that sad girl I was months ago; the sad girl who allows the man in her life to do as he pleases and never asks for more - for faith, for trust, or for love.
I want more.
When I arrived back in the city, I called the club where I had met Jackson. I wanted to see about going back. I needed to see if this life, his life, was truly for me or not. Jackson stirred something inside of me. The apartment party and the way he and I were together made me curious. I liked what we did but was it just because Jackson liked it too? Or could it be that I am interested in it, with or without him at my side?
I found out that they have a Master’s Night – a night where female submissives can auction themselves off for male dominants. It took me a few weeks, but I have finally worked up the courage to participate. The place will be filled with only male Dominants and female submissives.
I hope that I won’t see Jackson here.
Would he be angry with me?
Would he not care?
Would he beg me back?
Do I care?
Jackson made me feel things I have never felt before, but is he the only man on earth who could make me feel that way? Do I just need a dominant man or is Jackson the man I need?
I try to push thoughts of Jackson from my mind, I am not here for him I am here for me.
Each man in the club is a Dom and each woman a sub. There is an auction where I will fill out a card with my desires and the men can bid on me. My whole body is shaking with nerves. I’m not sure I can have another man touch me, let alone do something even remotely sexual with me. I take a deep breath. I need this. I need to discover this part of me, if it exists or if it is just something I enjoyed with Jackson.
There is also a process where I wear specific colored temporary tattoos that will explain what I am hoping to gain; if I am here for sexual pleasure, pain and sexual pleasures, bondage only, or pain only.
It feels good to know that I am the person who will be setting boundaries, that I am the one in control. There is also a time of negotiations or discussions before any play starts; I can call on the den mother – the woman in charge of all the submissives. The woman who is part of negotiations, a mentor of sorts
“What type of play are you here for tonight, Emma?” the den mother asks me.
I decide to use my middle name for the club. I don’t think I can handle another man calling me Maggs or Marguerite; at least not yet.
“I think I would like to offer non-sexual favors,” I whisper unable to meet the den mothers eyes.
“Eye’s up, honey. I need to know that this is exactly what you want. Nothing is set in stone, even after you choose. Negotiations happen for a reason,” she informs me. I lift my eyes to meet hers as I smile shyly and nod.
“I’m nervous,” I admit. She laughs, the sound deep, throaty, and unique. This is the same woman who gave the orientation and my initial tour of the club. She has sensed my nervousness from day one.
“You should be, little girl. Those men in there are going to take one look at all that is you and fall over themselves to make you theirs. Don’t let them intimidate you, darling girl,” she advises. I nod as she adds the deep violet temporary tattoo with a damp cloth to the top of my breast, opposite the side of my hanging rope of hair.
“Fill out your auction card and then you may go in. Remember you only have a two drink maximum, so don’t waste it in the first five minutes.” She winks and turns to the next girl. I sit down and slowly fill out my auction card; butterflies fill my stomach and my hands are shaking.
“What are you offering?” a young girl with a pixie style haircut asks, chewing on her lip.
“Non-sexual favors. I’m new,” I answer and she nods. She’s dressed in just a silver bra and thong panties and I notice the red tattoo on her breast. Pain. She likes pain.
“I need to be hurt,” she confesses quietly, her eyes darting around.
“That’s okay, we all need different things,” I smile. I don’t want pain, but who am I to judge? I’m sitting in a sex club just like she is.
“I want whoever picks me to really make it hurt,” she stresses. When I look into her dark eyes, they look glazed over and vacant. She’s a bit creepy, so I hurry up and finish filling out my card.
I think back to the orientation and what they advised. Be specific yet vague enough to negotiate. I am firm on one thing, no sexual play. I don’t think I could let a stranger touch me - no, I definitely know I can’t. I think back to the penthouse party that Jackson took me to. What did I enjoy seeing? What did I want to try?
I know that I’m not adventurous enough to ask for too much too soon. I decide to make my list simple. I assume none of the men will bet on me anyway, considering I don’t want any sexual play. I figure that is why they are all here.
The list is short, but I’m afraid of anything else. I want to add bondage, but I don’t trust any of these men. I don’t know any of
them. I am basically being a sissy la-la, too. I hand my card to the den mother and she looks over it with an arched eyebrow but doesn’t comment on my lack of services offered. For my first night, I don’t want to branch out too far into the unknown. I don’t want to get hurt by anybody as I’m not sure this lifestyle is truly for me, anyway.
I slowly make my way into the common area, where all of the Dominants are. There are a few claimed submissives that stand next to their Dom’s. Though, from what I’ve been told, this particular even is usually filled with singles who want to meet, play a little, and maybe even bond with other people like them. I steer clear of pain-girl, because she’s got some scary shit happening behind her vacant eyes, and I don’t want any part of that.
I walk toward the bar and wait for the bartender. In this moment, the place looks like any other bar, with the exception of the amount of leather worn by the patrons, like me. Keeping my eyes fairly downcast, so as not to be noticed, I try to get a glimpse of the Dominants. I see a few unattractive men, but most of them are extremely attractive in slacks and button up shirts. The men are all shapes and sizes, with different lengths of hair and different complexions, but they are all powerful - I can practically taste it in the air.
“What can I get you to drink, hon?” I look up and see a thin man with long black hair, dark eyes, and a smirk on his lips.
“A water please.” He shakes his head once.
“Your first time, you’ll need something stronger,” he advises. Like many of the Doms, he’s attractive as well; not overly so, but handsome enough to notice. I smile and shake my head, biting the corner of my bottom lip.
“All right; nothing strong, though.” He nods pausing with consideration and then, a moment later, he returns with a fizzing drink in a wine glass filled with ice.
“What is it?”
“White wine spritzer.” With a wink, he dashes off to somebody else and I am once again completely alone. I sip the bubbling sweet wine and try to gain the confidence that I know I lack.
“Is this your first night?” A deep voice asks from beside me. I look up and my breath is literally sucked from my body.
The man standing in front of me is nothing less than completely beautiful. He is tall, probably around six-foot, and he is built like an athlete, like Sammy and Jackson. He looks familiar; I don’t know where from, but I know his face. I can see the muscles under his shirt begging to be freed from the flimsy material – material that looks both expensive and, no doubt, designer. My eyes sweep down his trousers and I see that they are tailored perfectly to fit is long, lean body. He reminds me of Sammy, but his light blue eyes are kinder than Sammy’s were. His blonde hair is a tad long and brushes the top of his forehead.
“It is. I’m really nervous,” I confess with a shaky smile. The stranger smiles in return, tugging on the tail of my braid.
“Don’t be nervous, little one, you’ll do just fine. What is your name?”
“Emma,” I reply. His eyes dance with amusement for a beat before he leans in to whisper in my ear.
“You don’t lie very well, little one. I am Master Elliot,” he says as his hand slides up the side of my neck. He places slight pressure on the side of my neck with his fingertips, causing me to sway at his touch. The warmth and the pressure of his touch makes my whole body heat.
The moment he tells me his name, I know exactly who he is. This is the high-profile attorney that I met at the private party with Jackson just weeks ago. How did I not notice how handsome he was? I swallow the lump in my throat and try to calm my frantic nerves.
Does he recognize me?
Does he think that I am like all those women he has in his home?
Is he going to tell Jackson about me being here?
The thoughts swirl in my head and make me light headed and dizzy. I am beginning to panic.
“E-Emma is my middle name,” I stammer my eyes searching his as I wet my dry lips with my tongue.
“Good girl. Well, middle-name-Emma, will you be up for auction this evening?” he asks, his light blue eyes darkening to the color of a storming sea. It makes my breath falter. He is entrancing, but I can tell he is also dangerous.
“I-I am. But I’m afraid my card is very vanilla.” I press my lips together and look down at Master Elliot’s expensive Armani shoes.
“Look at me,” he demands in a rough voice. My head snaps up, my eyes meeting his. I am under his command and he smirks at the knowledge.
“You’re new to the scene and new to this club. Nobody expects you to write down violet wand and caning. You are trying it out, discovering, and hopefully building trust with this group. You can add whatever you want, whenever you want. It is about trust and safety here, little one. Everybody’s appetites and desires are different. Some Dom’s don’t care for newbies because of the time and care they require. They are impatient. Some Dom’s love the challenge, and satisfaction of knowing they’re the first to train a sub. They pride in watching a submissive discover herself.”
“Are you the later?” I smirk nervously. He squeezes my neck slightly in response, reminding me that he is in control; even if it is just the fact that he is touching me and I am not touching him.
Something about him is off and I remember Jackson warning me away from him, but I can’t remember why. Was it just because he didn’t like the way Elliot looked at me? Was it because he was dangerous? I just can’t seem to remember and it’s bothering me.
“When the mood strikes and the payout seems phenomenal, I can be an extremely patient man, little one,” he grins. I open my mouth to reply but am cut off by the Master Dom who is announcing the auction and asking all of us involved to go to the stage.
Master Elliot slides his hand from my neck but touches my temporary color tattoo with his fingertip as he smiles. He’s charismatic and charming, maybe a little too much, which makes me uneasy.
“I’ll see you around, little one.” He winks and strolls off. I take a long drink from the wine glass and make my way toward the stage, trying to ignore all of the eyes on me.
I join six other submissives. They all seem to know each other and I just stand there, silently, trying to breathe. I wonder, for the millionth time, if I have made a grave mistake.
The announcer calls out for everybody to be quiet and I look up to see that there are about ten single men right in front of the stage, lounging around, relaxed and comfortable. There are about five couples sporadically placed throughout the rest of the lounge. My eyes dart to each of the different men in front? Then my eyes land on Master Elliot. Another man is halfway turned to him and talking, but Elliot’s focus is on me and me alone. It makes my blood rush through my body and sends chills up my spine.
“First, we have Emma. This is her first night, so let’s start the bidding at five Dom Dollars,” he calls out.
The auction is held using Dom Dollars. I’m not quite sure how they are earned, but it isn’t real money and you can’t buy it; you must earn it, or at least that was what I was told at orientation.
“Ten,” one man shouts. I can’t even look to see who it is, my eyes are pinned, held, and owned by Master Elliot.
“Fifty,” Master Elliot he says, his voice rough but firm.
“Once. Twice. Sold to Master Elliot,” the announcer calls out. There is an applause, and even a few gasps, as Master Elliot hands the man the fake money and holds out his hand to me. I slip my hand into his large, warm, waiting one and allow him to lead me off of the stage.
“Shall we go to the back room and discuss the terms?” he asks.
I nod and briefly think about inviting the den mother to the negotiations with us, but I decide against it. I need to learn to be more independent. That’s what this whole experience is about.
“Would you like a drink?” Master Elliot murmurs against my ear as I slide into my seat. I politely decline, sure that I’m unable to hold anything down - even water. I am that nervous.
“Your card says personal services for one hour, non-
sexual,” he points out. I nod, closing my eyes tightly.
“Emma!” He barks harshly and my eyes open to meet his. An uneasy feeling floods throughout my body at his tone.
“I need you to look at me while we discuss this.”
I nod in understanding and watch as his hand extends and his finger lightly touches my nose.
“You’ll serve my drinks to me when I ask, you’ll sit next to me, and you will obey anything I ask of you. Non-sexual of course.” I nod.
“Initial here.” He points to the auction card and I initial the space next to the first offer of service.
“Bare hand spanking, yet you wear the color purple on your skin, meaning possible bondage offering.” I nod, knowing that damned color temporary tattoo would get me into trouble.
“I-uh-I have never been bound, but I find it highly interesting and I would like to try it. But, honestly, I’m afraid and I’m just too scared right now.” I shakily admit.
“How about if I bind only your wrists while I serve you with your spanking?” he asks.
The way he says serve me, like, I am the only person gaining from this, like he wants to service me in any way I deem acceptable, throws me for a loop.
“I could try that,” I agree. He nods and jots down the change in terms before I initial them.
“I feel like you won’t be gaining anything,” I murmur. I then watch his eyes turn that dark stormy color before he wraps his warm hand around the back of my neck, his forehead resting on mine as he inhales deeply.
“Already such a good girl, little one; worried about her Dom,” he whispers.
I want to correct him. He is not my Dom - not really, anyway. Though, I say nothing. If I am honest, there is a piece of me that wants him to be mine, and I don’t know why. Maybe it is just that I want somebody to be mine. I haven’t had anyone that was truly mine. How stupid is that? I feel like I ran from Sammy to Jackson and now to Master Elliot. I need to focus on myself; on healing myself, not on another relationship that I’m sure is only doomed to fail.
Catching Maggie Page 10