Chapter 11
chapter
eleven
Walkingacross the street toward The Black Collar feels like approaching a family reunion. Giddiness rises up in my chest and I smile involuntarily. To people like Journey and me, this place is nirvana; a judgment-free zone where like-minded people gather to be who they truly are. There is no need to wear a mask once you”re within these walls, and outside of my own home, I’ve never felt more comfortable than what I do when I’m here. It has been far too long, and my body vibrates with delight the closer I get to the building.
As usual, the line to get inside is long and filled with people who probably won’t get in for one reason or another. Most of them haven”t filled out the online questionnaire that is required, or they’ve been banned for being creepy assholes but they think enough time has gone by that their transgression has been forgotten. It hasn’t, but most of them won’t know that until they reach the front of the line.
My beloved Little Devil is shrouded in all-black tonight—a black dress that hugs her curves enough to make me jealous of the fabric, with black heels that make her ass even more mouth-watering. Her hair is in tight curls that bounce behind her back as she walks, and her makeup is flawless as usual. The woman is a walking wet dream I never want to wake from, and all I can do is try to look halfway decent while walking next to her. I stride over the pavement in dark gray slacks and a black button-up with silver buttons and matching cufflinks. We’re a combination of sexy and sultry as we step onto the curb and cut in front of the line to approach the bouncer.
“Evan Godric and Journey Monroe,” I say to him while interlocking my fingers with Journey’s.
The oversized bouncer looks down at the tablet in his large hands and enters our names, glancing over the top of it while he awaits the results. As soon as he sees what he needs to, he nods and grabs the thick black rope in front of us, granting us access.
“You guys are good to go,” he says, placing red wristbands on us both before stepping to the side. “Welcome back.”
Journey and I grin as we step past the rope, but before we can make it through the door, we hear commotion behind us that grabs our attention.
“Hey, what the fuck? Why are you letting them in and not me?” A random guy asks the bouncer with much more attitude than he should have when speaking to a man that size.
The bouncer glares at the guy, who’s dressed in blue jeans and a white Polo shirt. “Look, bro, you”re not on the list. It’s not my fault you didn”t fill out the form online and your friends did.”
“I forgot!” the guy barks. “You can”t just make me stand out here while you let these assholes in, and my friends are already inside having a good time. This is bullshit.”
I suppose there are too many witnesses to beat a man until his face caves in.
Shaking my head, I chuckle as I grip Journey’s hand tighter and lead her through the doors.
The inside of The Black Collar makes my chest fill with glee. The slow, sexy music sways the room to its hypnotic beat, pounding the black walls with each kick of the heavy drums. Flashing strobe lights illuminate the sea of scantily clad people living their best lives as we walk down the hall toward the bar, passing rooms filled with the sounds of cracking whips, slapping paddles, and tantalizing moans of agony and pleasure.
“Fuck,” Journey says, her face lighting up like the strobes above us. “God I missed this place.”
“You and me both, Baby Girl,” I agree. “We definitely have to start coming here more often. It’s been way too long.”
“No question,” she replies, her eyes glued to a scene in a nearby room with three people locked in pillories while being tormented with very large pinwheels.
“Come on. We’re going to the Main Stage,” I tell her before tugging her hand and continuing down the hall.
There’s an entire forest of people for us to push through, but we manage to make it to the open section of the club, where the space expands into a dance floor and bar. The massive square on the right is sardine tight, filled with people high on their favorite substance or drunk from a special concoction made at the bar on the left. Speakers that look more like cannons are mounted in each corner of the room, filling the area with enough bass to burst an eardrum, while three cages dangle above the crowd, each occupied by a sexy someone in tight leather, dancing erotically. It would take a hand grenade to wipe the smile from my face as Journey and I pause long enough to take it all in before continuing on our path behind the bar to reach our destination; the VIP area.
A bouncer checks our wristbands before holding the curtain open for us to enter the Main Stage. Excitement blooms in my stomach as we walk hand in hand and make our way toward the front of the seating area, where we’re pleasantly surprised to find two open seats at the end of the third row, in perfect view of the stage. We sit down just as the lights dim and the audience around us begins to cheer as a man and woman enter the stage. We recognize them immediately to be the owners of the club, Nolan Carter and his wife Bree.
These two are legends in this club. Nolan has been the owner since its conception, putting shows on the Main Stage as a direct example of what the BDSM lifestyle is supposed to look like to people who don”t know better—the judgmental people who hear the word kinky and think it means vile devil worshiper. Every time he walked on stage he was a representative for what this lifestyle is supposed to be like, and women were begging to be his partner, practically throwing themselves at his feet for a chance at being restrained and fed to a sadist with a hefty appetite.
Nolan put this club on the map, so much so that it attracted the attention of the Philadelphia Inquirer, who sent a vanilla journalist over to interview him. The two of them went on a wild ride together, one that was full of pleasure and pain, but also danger and violence.
By the time it was all over, every member of The Black Collar was reading the Pulitzer Prize winning article that Bree published, titled Interview with a Sadist, and learning all about how the two of them met and fell in love. Now that they’re married, they run the club jointly, and the shows they put on have become fabled to the point of disbelief. Journey and I smirk like kids coming down the stairs on Christmas morning in anticipation for what they’ll have for us today.
Nolan walks to the center first, wearing black pants and no shirt, showing off his glistening caramel skin. When he glances at the audience, we can see the blue in his eyes from here, making him look majestic as he takes center stage and grabs a rope from the small bed placed there. He ties the rope into an intricate knot and glares offstage. Without Nolan saying a word, his wife walks over in a beautiful red lingerie set that makes every man in the audience rearrange themselves in their seats. Bree is a vision, with dark brown hair tied into a ponytail putting her porcelain face on display and highlighting her own blue eyes.
“It’s no wonder these two got married recently,” I lean over and whisper to Journey.
“Seriously,” she agrees, shaking her head in awe. “They’re both fucking beautiful.”
Bree struts onto the stage, never looking anywhere except at Nolan who keeps his eyes on her as she walks in and climbs onto the bed. She rests on both of her knees, waiting patiently and silently as Nolan wraps the rope around her, creating gorgeous designs that are so intricate they look as though he went to college just to learn how to make them.
“Oh shit,” Journey mumbles quietly. “He’s doing Shibari.”
I fix my gaze on the stage and watch as Nolan puts on a display of geometric rope work that looks more like art than kink. He ties a rope around each of Bree’s legs, the fabric climbing up each limb like living vines that know exactly where they are supposed to go. He ties another over his wife’s arms, securing them behind her back in a move the police would be jealous of. The man is a master at work, and I even find myself envious of him.
By the time the club owner is finished, Bree is dangling from a rope that hangs from the top of the stage, gently swaying over the bed like a swing in the breeze. If she”s in any pain, she doesn”t show it. She”s still just as effortlessly beautiful as she was when she walked in.
“That’s so fucking hot,” Journey whispers again, making me wonder if she”s talking to me, or if what she has witnessed is so incredible to her that she just has to say it out loud.
As Bree sways on stage, Nolan stalks around her, watching the product of his work like an artist admiring what he has created for the world. While he watches Bree, I keep my eyes on Journey. I see the admiration in her eyes. She loves what she has seen, and she doesn”t have to tell me with words that this is what she wants to experience. Sometimes, being a partner means paying enough attention to pick up on signs that are left behind, even if they’re unintentional. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to do Shibari. However, I do know my Little Devil, and my love is enough to make me try what I think she’ll love. An idea sparks in my mind and sets my imagination ablaze with devious plans that I can’t wait to carry out. I’m so ready to do this that I don”t even look at the stage anymore. All I can see is Journey and the things I want to do to her.
“What?” she asks when she catches me staring.
I shake my head, a smile still tugging my lips. “Nothing. I just have an idea.”
“Yeah? What kind of an idea?”
“One that requires us to go home, and for you to give yourself to me.”
“Oh? Then what are we waiting for?”
“The end of the show.”
“Sir, I’d much rather put on a show with you than sit here and watch one. Can we leave? Right now?”
I lick my lips as the smile takes control of my face. “Absolutely.”
Journey and I quietly get out of our seats, doing our best not to disrupt the pure artistry on stage, and make our way out. I take my girl by the hand and guide her through the crowd outside the VIP area. We weave around bodies, pushing some aside because now that I can picture what I want to do to Journey, I refuse to let anything stand in the way.
We eventually burst through the door and step into the night air where the line of people trying to get in is still long and energetic. The bouncer nods at us as we walk by, but he doesn”t look happy about standing in front of a bunch of people who are pissed that they can’t get into the club. Even the asshole who was complaining about his friends leaving him behind is still there, glaring at us as we walk out.
“Wow, you let them in and they didn”t even stay that long,” he says to the bouncer, but his gaze stays on us. “Fucking piece of shit and his whore get in before me? This club is a joke.”
I feel it when it happens—the moment the beast in me wakes up from a peaceful slumber and takes full control. There are certain lines that can never be crossed without consequences. Journey is at the absolute top of that list, and the anger that awakens in me is unlike any I’ve ever felt before.
“What did you say?” I growl, stopping at the curb instead of crossing the street.
The guy who just ruined his life turns to me with a confident expression.
“You heard me,” he replies. “What? You got a fucking problem?”
The bouncer quickly steps from his position in front of the door and stomps up to the asshole. “Hey, you get the fuck outta here. I”ve been putting up with your shit all night, and now you”re antagonizing VIP members. You”re banned from The Black Collar. Now go, and don”t ever come back.”
“Banned? Are you fucking kidding me?” he blares, throwing his hands up in the air. “Fine. Fuck this place and fuck your VIP members—a bunch of fucking freaks who pay monthly to come be degenerates. You all fucking disgust me. I’m outta here.”
“Yeah, whatever. Just fucking go,” the bouncer replies.
The man from the line takes a second to stare down the bouncer, but eventually walks away just as Journey and I start across the street. I keep my eyes on him even as we reach my truck, and I see it when he slips into the darkness of a nearby alley, probably using it as a shortcut to get to the parking lot on the other side of the club.
This is it. Get him now or forever hold your peace. Defend Journey or be a little bitch in her eyes until the end of time.
Once I realize what he’s doing, I jump in the car and start the engine in a hurry, pressing on the gas and speeding out of the lot the second Journey gets her door closed.
“Where are you going so fast, Sir?” Journey asks.
When I look over at her, she’s smiling a wicked grin. I see the devil in her eyes and she sees the beast in mine, and we both know the answer to her question.