Owned: Highest Bidder
Coming January 25th!
Read the first 3 Chapters below:
I’m quiet as I walk into my bedroom, hoping to get a look at Lilly without her knowing. But those doe-eyed baby blues are shine back at me the second I enter.
Hating me. They pierce into me, giving me a look that could kill a lesser man.
I’ve been given more hateful glares. From deadly men who intended on killing me, who despise me and my very existence. I’ve never been affected.
But the look in her eyes guts me.
Because I know she’s hiding pain behind the hate.
“Let me out,” she says in a low voice as she wraps her fingers around the silver steel bars. Her voice lacking the strength and conviction she’d rather I hear. She adjusts slightly and as she does she winces. My eyes follow her movements, the grates of the cage have left an imprint on her knees. It’s only been a few hours since she’s been given her punishment. And I’m already regretting it.
I have to remind myself that this is for her own good. She’s being punished for a reason.
She wanted this.
She asked for this.
And now she wants to leave?
I won’t allow it.
My hands ball into fists as I stalk forward, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with each heavy step. The cage is large, much taller than her own height and she rises to meet me although she’s still on her knees.
Here’s a side to her I’ve never seen. The fierce woman who was always there, hiding behind the facade of obedient eyes.
She liked to play the submissive. She thought this was a game.
She thought wrong.
Lilly looks back at me with daggers in her eyes as I crouch lower, leveling my gaze with hers. Even with the anger swirling in her blue eyes, piercing into me, she gives off an air of purity, or innocence. She’s so delicate, so sweet. My flower.
Her rage only makes me want her more.
“Are you ready to obey?” I ask her, tilting my head slightly. My words piss her off. And I fucking love it. The comprehension of her predicament making her eyes narrow for a moment. I watch as her hands attempt to ball into fists, but she corrects herself, warring with what she craves to do and what she feels she’s expected to do.
She clenches her teeth, but her eyes water. Tears forming in her eyes as her lush lips part, but then quickly close without a sound being uttered.
I question everything in that small moment.
“Fuck you,” she finally responds in a sneer, but then instantly lowers her gaze. She’s strong, courageous even, but she’s a true submissive. I have yet to earn that side of her. But I will.
“You want to,” I answer with a sharp smirk that curves my lips up and that brings her glare back. It’s a tit for tat. If she’d give in, so would I, but she’s fighting it.
She didn’t realize how intense this would be when she signed that contract. Giving her freedom over to me. Neither did I.
She doesn’t respond but I see her thighs clench ever so slightly. The small action makes my dick instantly harden with desire. She loves what I do to her. She still wants me, even when she hates me.
“All you need to do is obey, my flower.” I restore my strict composure, waiting for her answer.
My nickname for her makes her lips part just the tiniest bit with lust. It makes me lean into her that much closer. Wanting more. My fingers wrap around the bars just above hers, barely touching her, but feeling the heated tingle I always do when I’m with her.
She knew I wasn’t a good man.
That’s part of what drew her to me. I know it is.
“Fine,” she says in merely a whisper. I cock a brow at her answer, daring her to continue with that disrespectful attitude.
Our days are numbered and if I let her, she may leave me the moment she can and never look back.
But she craved this for a reason. The same darkness that drives my desires is in her. Stirring low in the pit of her stomach, fueling her hatred for me, but making her want me so much more.
“You know that’s not the way I’d like you to address me.”
“Yes, sir.” She says obediently, her voice the proper tone as she squares her shoulders. She’s still eye level with me, there’s still a fierceness to her, but she’s willing to play. That’s just how I want her.
I’ll show her how good this can be.
But first, she needs to be truly punished. The cage door opens slightly with a gentle creak. I need to leave a lasting impression.
She may be angry with me, but she’s still mine.
I own her. And I’m not letting her go.
“What in the f’n hell?” I slam the romance paperback, Playback, I’d been reading close with an angry growl. My blood boiling like an evil witch’s cauldron.
“How could it end….like that?” I grit my teeth, shaking my head at the gall of whoever’s written this. I fell in love with this storyline and totally felt the heartache and brutal pain the hero and heroine went through. I was rooting for Liam and Tilda. Their story gripped my heart from the very first page, and I was quickly drawn into their struggles to overcome the heart-breaking obstacles keeping them apart.
I’d read each page breathlessly, flipping through the pages like a hungry wolf in search of his next meal, practically dying to find out how it all ended and then…I gulp as my throat constricts into a ball of tight anger, unable to understand how someone could be so cruel. I’d invested so much of myself into the story, hoping to be rewarded with a satisfying conclusion to such a tragic relationship.
Then it ended. Just like that. No happily ever after. No resolve. A tragic heartbreak that left me feeling raw. I can’t believe how invested I was in the book, feeling like I was part of the character’s lives, only to be shafted at the very end.
Burning up with anger, I turn the book over and peer at the binding, determined to commit the author’s name to memory so I can make sure to stay clear of reading anymore of the their future work. Lauren Winters. “More like Slutty Winters,” I mutter angrily, feeling thoroughly cheated.
I know it’s fiction and it’s not real, but I hate when I get invested into characters and then something like this happens. It makes me feel absolutely cheated.
I groan my frustration, tossing the book on the end table. My eyes are drawn to the roaring flames of the marble fireplace that I’m seated in front of. The heat of the fire pricks my already heated cheeks and I relax slightly as I’m enveloped by cozy warmth. Despite my sour moment, I love this.
It’s one of my favorite past times during the cold winter months, sitting in front of the roaring fire with a hot mug of coffee and burying my nose into an engrossing romance novel. I just like it better when it’s a book that doesn’t leave me feeling like my heart’s been ripped out of my chest and stomped on in front of me.
“I need something more mindless and smutty after that,” I mutter, picking up my cup of coffee and taking a sip. I’m calm now, but I still have the slight urge to toss the book into the flames. I must admit the author did a good job with everything else. I just didn’t like her ending.
I just wish I hadn’t stepped on my kindle. I had like 50 awesome books piled up on my to-be-read list.
Sighing, I get up from my cushioned recliner with the book in my hands and stretch out my limbs, several of my bones popping. But if feels so good, I hold the position, letting my limbs come back to life.
My eyes take in my living room and my mood lifts slightly again. It feels so homey in my new townhouse, especially with how cold it is outside. I’ve decorated it with warm, earthen colors that makes me feel right at home. The walls are lined with decorative shelves that are filled with books. I’ve read every single one of these books. A few of them are even autographed.
I love my new bookends too. They’re pale blue mice made of stone on each end. They look like they’re holding the books up, and just seeing them makes me smile.
This room is completely mine and finally feels like a home. I still have the rest of the rented townhouse to put my stamp on, but this one room is just perfect. I walk to the large paned window across the room to open the curtains and let the evening light in. I can feel the cold from the winter coming through.
Outside, I can still see the confetti lining the streets from the New Year’s Parade as I place my hand against the window. It’s a few days past the first of January and a few pieces are still blowing along the edges of the building.
I grin as I take it all in, the ending of the book quickly forgotten. I could write a romance that would leave me with feelings that would brighten my day. It’s okay to make my heart hurt a little, but I don’t want it broken. That’s not why I read romance novels.
I’ve actually had a very good year, albeit a long one. I just finished my next-to-last semester at North University and I’ve passed all my classes with a B or better. I even managed to get a B+ in advanced calculus, something that’s always been a struggle for me, all while working hard as a guidance counselor with troubled students at a local High School. I will never understand why psychology students have to know calculus. At this point, I just want to graduate and start giving back and helping make a brighter future for others as a teaching counselor in the youth detention center. It’s their last chance before their delinquency sends them beyond public schools and straight to jail. It’s not a job I take lightly.
I can’t handle the high school kids though. That’s for damn sure. For this past paid counseling internship, the program threw me in a classroom with twenty students. I’m only 24 and I’m petite and even on my best days, I hardly look over 21. To say the students didn’t take me seriously, doesn’t even begin to cover it. I cannot handle working with older teenagers. At all. Sure as hell not twenty of them at once.
Some of those kids got under my skin so bad that I thought I was about to have a stroke. It takes a lot to get me worked up and thinking negatively. But I found it difficult to stay positive as the semester progressed. I still managed to persevere though; a few students showed so much improvement and I know I made a positive difference in their life. In the end, that’s all that matters.
That internship is over, thank God. Next year, I’ll be in a middle school and that’s where I really want to work. I feel like I could do the most help there.
And now I have the entire winter break to catch up on all the romance books I’ve neglected as reward for my hard work.
I glare balefully at the book in my hand, thinking, I just need to make sure I don’t read anymore disasters like this one.
Huffing out another small sigh, I walk over to my bookshelf and pause before I slip the book back into it’s spot. I really should toss the damn thing into the fire. I’ll probably never read it again. In fact, I know I won’t. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Books are like the holy grail to me. Even ones I don’t love. They keep me sane and positive. They give me hope.
It’s time to get dressed and move on. I love my book boyfriends and getting lost in romances, but I have other plans tonight.
My body crackling with excitement, I put the book back into its place and make my way to my bedroom. I’m going to Club X tonight, a place that literally embodies the BDSM fantasy elements I love reading about.
Except it’s a fantasy come to life and I freaking love it. It’s been my secret pleasure for a while now and I’m having a blast just showing up and observing the BDSM lifestyle. The rich, powerful men, the beautiful, willing sex slaves, the hot and heavy playrooms with the wild, untamed sex. I suck in a breath as heat burns my cheeks and my nipples pebble at the thought. The experience has been so much more liberating and intoxicating than I thought it would be. Even if I haven’t participated yet.
It’s exactly the place I need to be to research the themes that I’m putting in my romance novel that I’ve been writing on my off time while at school. The book isn’t anything I’m taking too seriously and I don’t expect for it to ever be published or seen by anyone’s eyes but me. I just love writing the stories that come to me. It’s a stress-relieving outlet that I enjoy indulging in, especially when I’ve had a particularly bad day.
I walk into my bedroom, tingling with excitement, and dig out a beautiful red night gown out of my closet. I bought it just for tonight. There’s a PJ theme tonight at Club-X and I don’t want to be sent home for breaking club protocols. I set it down onto the bed, running my fingers along the soft, silk fabric, thrilling at how luxurious it feels.
My skin pricks as I stare at it. I hope I’ll look beautiful in this tonight. Just thinking about the looks I’ll get from one of those powerful, handsome masked men, causes my breath to quicken and my pussy to clench. A fiery blush comes to my cheeks, a little bit ashamed at how turned on I am. I don’t engage with them though. I stick to the safety of the trainers. I’m not ready for this to truly be real.
I can’t imagine how the people at school would react if they knew I was attending a place like Club X. A twinge of worry pricks my chest at the thought. I don’t want anyone finding out and I’m filled with anxiety every time I show up at school after a night at Club X. I worry that someone will recognize me and out me. But with how strict the rules are at the club and the non-disclosure agreements that have to be signed just to get through the doors, I let the worry slip by.
I’m still slightly shocked about how I found out about it. Or rather who told me about it. One of the teachers at the high school I work at, Mrs. Nicole Flite, mentioned the place to me after she saw me with my nose stuck in an erotic romance novel over lunch break. She was cautious at first, probably scared that I would look down at her or rat her out to the principal when she told me about the darker elements of the club. But when she saw how intrigued I was by the whole thing, she let loose, filling me in on all the exotic details.
I couldn’t believe that a teacher who looked as sweet and unassuming as her could even be part of such a dark, sexual world like that. But then again… so am I. And now I’m hooked. This place embodies what I’ve been dreaming about after reading my romance novels.
It just took a lot of work to build up the courage for me to go. But I finally did and I don’t regret it at all.
I still haven’t seen Nicole there yet, in the weeks I’ve been going. And I’m not sure I will. From what I know, she’s married with kids and she doesn’t get the chance to go often anymore.
I haven’t been able to go that much either, engrossed with school and work. Only on the weekends.
But now that I have all this free time over the winter break, I’m going to make the most of it.
I slip the red nightgown into my bag, feeling the adrenaline rush through my blood, and walk out of my bedroom, intent on spending a night lost in fantasy.
I bring the whiskey to my lips, taking a swig and then wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
The amber liquid warms my chest with a vicious burn on the way down. I revel in the feeling. I need it just to feel at this point. My life is devoid of anything. I have wealth, I gave up power, and now I’m alone.
I made the right decision though. I left the familia, taking the fall to get the heat off their backs. But now I have nothing and no one. I’m bored, that’s what’s pissing me off.
It’s better than taking over the familia. Even if that does make me an outcast.
I clench and unclench my hands into fists. My knuckles are sore from boxing earlier today. I spend most of my time in the gym in my basement. It’s all I do at this point, workout and survive each day. Just like the prisoner I am. A prison of my own making.
I don’t fit in anywhere. Like the fucking Beast in his castle. I huff a humorless laugh, swirling the whiskey in the glass before taking another swig. I can feel the warmth flowing through every bit of me, coursing through my blood and finally giving me the buzz I was after.
I want to drown in this feeling. I need it just to sleep. The visions of what they’ve done and the blood still on my hands burn into me when I close my eyes.
I killed them. I helped eliminate those thieving, lying murderous bastards. Not for revenge, not for a righteous vindication. Killing the Romanos was a message. One that the community and business partners heard loud and clear.
But someone had to take the fall for it and I was eager to leave. I don’t want to be a monster. I don’t want a life of corruption and pain. It’s a ruthless lifestyle. One I was born into.
I stare down at the worn journal in my lap. I’m writing every memory down as they come to me. Partly for documenting it, partly to relive it. It’s fucked up that I’m trapped by the memory of a world I was so eager to leave, but the sins of my past refuse to let me move on. And I don’t know why yet.
I close the leather journal and run my finger along the inscribed name on the front. Passerotto. Little Sparrow.
But that’s not my name. It’s what my mother called me. And this journal is all I have left from her, save a few dark memories.
Joe Levi. Murderer. Villain.
That’s the only name I go by now.
I’m sure this wasn’t what my mother imagined this journal would be used for, but she’s six feet under the cold hard dirt. I down the whiskey at the thought.
I was raised to be ruthless and cold, brought up in an environment that breeds sick fucks, like my own father.
They think I’m corrupt or maybe even a snitch cause the charges got dropped. The ones I was meant to take the fall for, but they don’t know how or why they got dropped. Some think I have more power than I do, which is helpful at times. I’m still feared, which is better than having a target on my back, but it leaves me lonely.
The fire crackles in the large den. I stare at the logs, the fire spilling from the splits between the logs. The back of the brick (fireplace thingy) black with soot.
I enjoy their fear. I need it to continue to survive. What’s worse is that it breathes life into me.
I didn’t have a choice.
Lies! The voices in my head sneer at me. They hiss that I could have done more.
They all should have died. My father, my brother.
I shouldn’t have stopped at just the Romanos.
I set the empty glass down and lean forward, my head in my hands and my elbows on my knees.
I’ve done horrible things. I didn’t have to. I chose to so I could survive. So I didn’t have to run my entire life with the threat of death hanging over my head. But I still didn’t have to do it. And now the memories haunt me.
My phone pings on the end table, drawing my attention and breaking the repetitive thoughts that I can never escape.
I slowly reach for it. There are only three people it could be. I dread the ones from my familia. They can all go fuck off. But they don’t seem to get the message. I read the name on the lit screen and relief and something else flows through me. Comfortability.
Kiersten. Or Madam Lynn as she likes to be called nowadays.
She reminds me of the one good thing I ever did. The whiskey pales in comparison to the warmth that memory brings to my chest.
They left her for dead. But I helped him save her.
It wasn’t enough for all my sins to be forgiven, for all my wrongs to be righted, but I’m proud that she’s still here, even if he isn’t.
She’s a close friend and nothing more. It’s only recently that I’ve begun to leave this house, and it’s because of her. She’s always talking about how she owes me; she has no idea. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m the one who owes her.
She wants to help me, but she can’t. I’m beyond repair and there’s nothing I want from her. It’s a sweet gesture that she tries to fill my dark days with something.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, it feels late in the dim-lit room with the thick drapes closed, but the darkness is just setting in beyond the walls of this house. This prison I keep myself in.
Are you coming tonight?
I read her text message and debate on my answer.
I have sinful fantasies, some a product of the way I was raised, but others I’ve grown to desire on my own accord. I’ve yet to give in to the impulse driving me to keep going to Club X. It’s alluring and intoxicating in it’s nature. The atmosphere a mix of sex and power, so intense, it alone is a drug.
Just last week I bid on a slave at her auction in Club X. I’m not a fan of the term, I prefer pet, but neither really matters.
I’ve never paid for sex before. It’s not about the money at the auctions, it’s about the contract. About getting exactly what I want and ensuring the lines are drawn and everything written in black and white. Everything consensual. … even if it’s nature is not.
That bid wasn’t a bid for pleasure. Although she made me curious, I didn’t want her. Her Master called her Katia, his kitten.
I thought Isaac was humiliating her, making her go onto a stage knowing no one else would bid on her. Making her feel undesired. I know the man and I know what he’s capable of.
I was pissed. How could he treat her like that? She was trembling on the stage, her apprehension and fear apparent. I wanted to make him pay for what he was doing. And steal his kitten, set her free even.
But I was wrong.
I don’t understand them, the members of the club and the elite circles who have grown comfortable there. This lifestyle is new to me.
But control isn’t. Sex isn’t.
Power is in my blood.
My phone pings again. I don’t want to read it. She always convinces me to go. Maybe it’s because I feel for her and for what she’s going through, but I’m not interested in playing games and trying to fit in where I don’t belong.
I toss the journal and pen onto the end table and rise from my seat, feeling my muscles groan with a pain that I find pleasurable. I take a peek at my phone in my hand when the reminder ding goes off.
Kiersten text reads:
She’s going to be there.
I stare at it, thinking about the one thing that’s interested me in the last three years of living in this void. I ran into her when I left the auction. Literally. I ran straight into her small, delicate frame and nearly knocked her over. I wasn’t paying attention. It was my fault entirely.
But she took the blame.
Kneeling, improperly, and apologizing in a hushed voice.
She was perfectly imperfect. In need of a Master. But not accepting of one. She’s still learning. Kiersten caught on to my interest when I started coming to the club more often.
I’ve been watching her. I needed to observe her.
She has desires I’m not sure I can fill. The way she craves pain is something that feeds a monster lurking inside of me. A depraved beast I’ve tried to keep chained.
I should stay far away from her. But she piques my curiosity and she’s made me truly desire her. Or at least I crave hearing those soft moans and forcing them from her lips myself.
I’ve watched her this past month. I’m not sure she’s noticed. No one pays her much attention since she’s still finding her limits. She’s not eager for a partner either. She sticks with the trainers and stays in the shadows and corners, keeping out of sight.
I can’t deny that she tempts me to possess her, to teach her proper techniques. I tap my fingers on the wooden end table rhythmically. I consider going tonight.
I picture the curve of her ass as she practices her poses, the way her lips part with lust when she touches herself discreetly. She may think no one’s noticed her, but I have. And I want her.
I text Kiersten back, I’ll be there.
I walk up to the doors of Club-X, the huge mansion-like structure looming in the background, it’s red ambient lighting illuminating the front of the building and casting a glow on its esteemed guests that are waiting to be admitted. A cool breeze drafting through the area. My skin pricks as the air softly caresses my flesh, crackling with electricity, and the dark-suited bodyguard at the door recognizes me.
His eyes trail the skimpy outfit that I’m wearing, the red silk short night gown that I changed into before getting out of my Honda. I feel almost naked under his gaze, but at the same time sexy, he makes me feel wanted. Although the attraction is firmly one-sided.
I should be used to this now, but I still get nervous with excitement. I know that in a few moments, men far more powerful than him will be looking at me and it makes me feel anxious. Unconsciously, I trail my finger along my bracelet. It’s still rubber, meaning I’m still just learning, and I haven’t chosen a membership bracelet that will indicate what I want in a partner, dominant or Master, or someone who enjoys the more painful side of BDSM. I’m afraid to admit that I’m a virgin, there’s a bracelet for that. I would rather have a submissive or slave bracelet, although I’m not sure which one yet. The lines are blurred for me still. And I’m not sure how much control I’m really willing to give up. The fantasy of being completely at someone else’s mercy makes me weak with desire. But the reality has an entirely different effect.
I think the aspect of pleasure and pain is what intrigues me most. I haven’t felt the sting of a whip yet. But I really want to. I crave it like a sweet-toothed freak feigning their next Twinkie. I just haven’t asked for it. It’s as easy as letting a trainer know that I’m ready. But I haven’t taken the plunge.
Deep down, I know that actually committing to it is going to take a lot. And right now, I’m just observing. It’s all just research for my book. Or so I tell myself.
I’m admitted through the doors by the dark-gazed bodyguard and as I step into the club I have to suck in a breath. I’ve been here a lot, at least half a dozen times, but I’m floored every single time I walk in. Club X is beyond beautiful with thick lush carpet, extravagant furniture, gorgeous ambient lighting and soft, tantalizing music that makes my blood heat.
But the thing that gets me the most is the very air that surrounds the people.
The men who walk the floors of the club radiate power and wealth beyond imagine and the women who follow them are too beautiful for words. I watch as a masked man pulls his timid partner along by a gleaming silver chain, his eyes filled with determination and swirling with lust. I keep my gaze safely away, knowing that it’s not my place to look at a master or dominant directly in his eyes unless I want to draw his ire. I’m supposed to be submissive and acting anything but will get me in trouble. Even if I’m only here to watch. I can’t ruin the fantasy that Club X provides so perfectly.
I shiver as the atmosphere of the club seems to wrap around my body, my nipples pebbling. I love this place. It’s even better than reading my books, and that says a lot.
My lungs fill with a deep, steadying breath, trying to get control over my emotions. It’s almost as if I’ve taking a hit and a powerful drug and I’m getting high. That’s what this place does to you. It gets you high on lust, power… sex.
I lean against the bar just past the foyer and breathe in deeply, cooling my heated blood.
I know I want to go to the dungeon, but first, I think I need a drink. It is dark down there and I’m not sure I can handle it without at first numbing a part of myself. I need to free my inhibitions.
As I wait for the bar tender, I glance across the large hall. The stage on the back wall is dark tonight, the curtains are closed and I don’t know if that’s a good thing. I look forward to the shows, not only are they exhilarating, they’re a great learning experience.
I order a shot of tequila, making sure to keep my gaze in a safe place. Within seconds, the shot glass is placed down in front of me by a beautiful bar vixen with long dark hair, wearing the same professional uniform the other employees have on. There’s no mixing up who’s working here and who’s here for play.
The liquid burns as it goes down my throat, but it’s a comfortable feeling. I know it will help me deal with the experience of the dungeon. Even though I’m hungry for the experience, the alcohol aids me in handling with the intense sexual emotions that run through my body. The alcohol is nothing in comparison to how intoxicating the sights in the dungeon can be. I bite into the lime and let it wash the taste of the liquor out of my mouth, the sourness making my eyes close tightly.
When I’m done with my drink, the fiery liquid warming my belly, I leave the bar and make my way through the halls, blending in and trying to disappear amongst the crowd.
A few men approach me as I pass the playroom. I swallow thickly, my heartbeat racing as I pause in my steps. I don’t look at them, but I make sure that my bracelet is in view. Once they see it, they move on. No one seems interested in someone who still doesn’t know what they want.
With the rubber bracelet on my wrist, the only people who talk to me are submissives waiting for their partners or the trainers. I like it that way. It makes me want to keep the bracelet forever. It makes me feel safe. But the days are limited. The membership here is expensive. Too fucking expensive. The first month with this bracelet was on the house. Madam Lynn, the owner I think, said that I could stay to see if it suited me. But next month I have to pay up if I’m not paired up. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Or if I ever will be. But the month is almost up.
It’s hard not to stop and stare at the sexual acts taking place in the playroom as I pass them. The men and women going at each other with untamed depravity. Their moans and cries and grunts and groans assault my ears, the smack of their flesh pounding against each other, filling my already heated blood with sexual desire.
I ignore it as best I can, although my breathing is coming in faster, and continue on into the darkened corridors, my pulse racing with excitement.
There’s nothing in this world like the place I’m about to enter. The playrooms are an intense experience, but down here it’s far more… primal, possessive, raw in every sense of the word. I make my way down a darkened hallway to where two men dressed in dark suits wait on either side of a large iron cast door. They’re employees, guards who make sure that everything runs smoothly. And that no laws are broken. They give me a cursory glance before opening the door, the sound of its creaking making my heart jump in my chest.
I suck in a jagged breath before I walk into a darkened stairwell, the only lighting being small, glowing red scones on the wall, giving the area an almost evil feel. A few masked men pass me on my way down and their way up, their dark gazes holding secrets that chill my blood. One man even stops to look at me as if thinking that I am looking to be taken, but when he sees my bracelet, he keeps moving like the men back at the playroom.
They respect that I’m not ready and not a single person has tried to push me. There are rules to the club and they’re strictly followed. It makes me feel safe. It’s odd to think that way, given the nature of this place. But I do feel safe.
I shudder to even think about what goes on through the Masters and Dominants’ head when they look at me. In a thrilling and exciting way. A way that hardens my nipples and sends a pulsing need to my clit. I’m almost ashamed at how turned on I am by their questioning glances and piercing stares and the sinful thoughts I know that lurk behind their eyes.
It’s just how I imagine it in my books. I only hope I can write about this in a way that does this place justice. That captures the sensual seductive side along with the other emotions coursing through my blood.
As I get closer to my destination, a shrill scream that’s a mix of pleasure and pain, rips through the stairwell. It’s followed by whimpers and moans. I pause, gripping onto the banister for support, my breath stalling in my lungs. I’ve been here many times, but I still can’t prepare myself for some of the darker things that happen in the dungeon. It’s so sexually intense that I become dizzy with desire and emotion. Thank God I’ve taking that hit of tequila.
After I calm myself, I continue on until I make it to the bottom floor. The sounds of moans and seductive pleading filling my ears.
It’s a place that resembles a 17th century English dungeon, with cages and racks on either side of the room, and torch lighting along the walls. The ambiance is everything that makes this room… tempting and forbidden mixed with danger and fright.
It’s more private here, especially this early, but I’ve seen many things here that I never imagined I would. Even more, things that have turned me on. Scenes I’ve watched play out and then later been ashamed to have gotten aroused by. I’ve seen a woman beaten with a whip until tears were falling down her cheeks. Her ass bright red from the markings of the whip. But she leaned into it. She begged for more. Her master gave her what he felt she needed and the way he took her after made me desire the same ruthless touch.
I want to feel what she feels. I want to experience it to understand why she desired it as much as she did.
I watch, stalking along the edges of the room, as a naked, dark-haired woman is bound to a bench, the rough rope is coarse and would chafe her skin but her masked master places a thin piece of silk under it. Her lips part in a soft moan and whimper mixed as he binds her so tightly she can barely move. I can see his huge hard cock pressing against his silk slacks. It forces an intense wave of arousal through every part of me.
The Master, or dominant, I’m not sure, is wearing the membership bracelet. Two bands of silver and in the center, red. I shiver at what the bracelet signifies. This dude is into some dark shit. Sadism and Masochism.
I’ve seen this couple before, though I don’t know their names. I don’t know anyone’s real name, actually. It’s funny, I’ve been coming here for a while, and I don’t know anything about anyone. But it doesn’t bother me. I’m here for the experience. And names are rarely used inside Club X.
Another couple is seated on a bench, I’ve seen them before too. The man gives me chills like no other. And not in a good way. His eyes are beady and pure black. His hand gripping his pet’s shoulder, squeezing. He’s always touching her, or pulling her collar. I’ve never seen them interact in anyway other than what they’re currently doing. With her on her knees on the ground, looking straight ahead and him behind her, whispering into her ear.
Her hair is wispy and unkempt, which also makes them stand out. None of the others look like her. They’re taken care of in ways she’s not. Most of the women here are given looks of jealousy from me, I can’t help it. But not her, I can’t help the sympathy I feel for her.
Of all the people here, he’s the only one that doesn’t seem to belong. And because of the way he treats her. The way she doesn’t beg him for more. The way his touch seems to wilt her spirit rather than enhance it.
I rip my eyes away from them, hating that they’re here. I have to ignore them whenever they come. Instead I focus on the couple in the center of the room, the reason most everyone is in this room. The ideal couple. The one that exemplifies what I consider to be the fantasy of this lifestyle.
I watch as he kisses her softly on the lips and places a blindfold over her eyes. There’s a guard to the right of them, watching vigilantly. There’s another one down at the end of the room, also watching the couple and the onlookers like me. These men observe everything and every detail. They see everything. The men in the suits are here to enforce order in case things go too far. They know the safe words ahead of time. Although everything is done discreetly. And some couples don’t use safewords at all.
I was shocked the first time I saw one of these men disrupt a session. I could understand why though, she was screaming for her partner to stop. The very fact that the guard felt the need to step in made me fear for the submissive. The guard merely stepped forward and requested that the submissive give her safe word. The dominant stepped back immediately, lowering the paddle he was using on her, and the submissive gave it, out of breath and still writhing in the binds that held her down. She whispered the word green and then looked to her master, waiting for more. I got the feeling it wasn’t the first time a guard had interrupted them.
The man in the suit stepped back and the scene continued. The submissive kept screaming as her master fucked her ruthlessly, using her body mercilessly, fucking her with vicious need and smacking the paddle against her skin as he took her almost like a caveman from primordial times.
It was a rape fantasy reenacted before my very eyes. It was very difficult to watch and my eyes kept going over to the guard that was standing nearby. But he didn’t move anymore. As long as the submissive didn’t say the safe word, the dominant had complete control over her. They were free to act out whatever fantasies they shared in complete safety.
For couples without safe words, they merely nod at the guards when asked if they’re alright. Or so I’ve been told. I’ve only seen a guard interrupt once. I’m surprised how many couples don’t have safe words. Some simply use ‘stop’. I suppose it’s different for every partnership.
Most of the clients in here seem paired up, like these two. It makes me envy them. Especially when they’re collared. Collars are like wedding bands. My eyes fall to the floor and my heart thuds. Maybe that’s more of my romance novels slipping in. I don’t know for sure that the people here regard collars so highly.
It’s hard not to confuse reality and fantasy. But that’s easy to do here. This place is like a fantasy come to life.
A movement out of the corner of my eye causes me to look around. The breath stills in my throat and my heart skips a beat. There he is. Looking at him, I can hardly stand, my knees are so weak. He’s like a dark prince, dressed all in black with his pitch-black half mask, the edges of it looking torn. It serves only to enhance his chiseled features. My breath quickens as his eyes bore into me with an intensity that makes my skin prick. The room seems to bow to him. Everything urges me to bend to his will. And I want to.
My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at the floor. A chill travels down my shoulder and through my spine. He has a power over me more intense than anyone else. A pull to him so strong I nearly give in and fall to my knees as I feel his gaze on me.
I’ve seen this man before. In fact, I ran into him when I was new to the club. My cheeks burn at the memory, remembering his dark gaze on me, the flush of my skin as I sank to my knees and apologized for being so clumsy. He watches me sometimes when I come into the club and I’m always almost overwhelmed. At first I thought it was all in my head that he was checking me out and then I thought I was just getting carried away by my fantasies. But he followed me down here.
He must want something from me. The thought makes my body come alive with desire.
Or maybe it really is all in my head, I think to myself. No one knows me here. I’ve tried my best to make myself as invisible as possible.
But as I move away and walk over to the St. Andrew’s cross that sits next to a rack of whips and rope, I can feel him following me, stalking my every move.
My breathing quickens as I do something I’ve yet to do. I slowly fall to a kneel, trying to remember every detail the trainer showed me about proper posture. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. But my body feels compelled by a mysterious force.
I show him submission.
I invite him to have power over me.
Want to read the rest? Look for it January 25th! 🙂