Safe Word for the Masked Dom

ONE

My sight had always been sharp, even in my forties.

I didn’t wear glasses, I didn’t squint in dim lighting.

Wearing these scleral black contacts, however, was a unique form of torture.

Whichever sadist invented them must have thought blinking was optional.

The online tutorials made it look simple, but these contacts were bigger, meaner, and required more dexterity than my clumsy sausage-fingers could manage.

I balanced the glossy black disc on my fingertip, glaring at it under the harsh fluorescent light. It sat there as if it knew exactly how badly this was going to go.

With a frustrated sigh, I dragged my focus back to the mirror.

The gaudy LEDs framing it lit up the topaz in my eyes – distinctive and, unfortunately, unforgettable.

My mother’s, down to the last fleck of amber.

They had always drawn too much attention.

To some, fascination. To my father, a reminder.

She had left us, but her gaze still stared back at him through me.

He tried to beat the resemblance out of my face.

Didn’t work.

Not then.

Not ever.

I clenched my jaw and shoved the memory aside.

This wasn’t the time for reflection. Tonight wasn’t about the past – it was about becoming someone else.

With a measured breath, I wrestled the second contact lens into place, blinking until the discomfort dulled into something tolerable.

My focus shifted to the skeletal mask lying on the counter – a grotesque masterpiece of craftsmanship.

It had cost me more than I wanted to admit, but it was worth every cent.

The hand-carved wood was light as a whisper, and the paint didn’t irritate my skin, even when I had no time to shave.

It also carried a faint scent of cherries.

It was subtle and oddly comforting, as though mocking the monstrosity it portrayed.

This mask wasn’t just a prop – it had become a part of me.

I stepped back, studying the man in the mirror.

He looked unhinged, a figure ripped from someone’s darkest nightmare. I could hardly recognise myself.

Black jeans clung low to my hips. My chest was left bare – broad, disciplined, and inked like a warning label.

The tattoos did a decent job of distracting from the older scars beneath, though nothing short of amnesia could do the same for my mind.

The skeletal aspect of the mask was convenient – framing my face with theatrical menace, its hollow sockets offering just enough room to see – and pretend – I was still human.

The cursed contacts erased the last trace of me – blacking out any hint of soul, while the smudged kajal around my eyes stitched the whole monstrous illusion together like a final, careless flourish.

Make-up de Frankenstein. Très chic.

A villain. That was what I looked like – the kind parents warned their kids about.

A dry, bitter laugh escaped me.

Who found this appealing? And why was I so drawn to embodying it?

Yet, as I adjusted the mask, a grim satisfaction coiled in my chest. Excitement began to bubble. This was what I was – a villain.

The mask was a pullover design, sliding over my head like a balaclava, concealing every strand of my black hair beneath it.

It fitted snugly, tight enough to make me feel like I was suffocating for a moment before the sensation passed.

Once it was on, there was no way anyone would recognise Cain D’Angelo – the American-Italian philanthropist, the celebrated author, the face that graced magazine covers.

In a place like this, anonymity wasn’t just a perk – it was an absolute necessity.

I glared at the black tiles and flickering neon choking the doorway, wondering if this was what passed for luxury in the underworld economy.

I still wasn’t entirely sure what these venues were even called.

They weren’t brothels – touching the women was not allowed for the most part unless agreements were signed.

They weren’t strip clubs, either; no dancers, no poles, no garish signs screaming indulgence.

They weren’t dating hubs, with awkward exchanges over cocktails or apps pinging aloud.

Someone once referred to them as fantasy lounges, and I suppose the term fit. Here, people indulged their deepest, darkest fantasies, safely shrouded behind disguises and strict rules.

Ossidiana – or Obsidian in English – was more than just a venue; it was a sanctuary for the taboo, a velvet-lined liminal space where the rules of society didn’t apply.

Tucked away between unmarked buildings in a quiet Roman district, it thrived on whispers and exclusivity.

Membership wasn’t something you applied for; it was earned, vetted by an undeclared hierarchy that judged you not by wealth, but by the darkness you carried and the discretion you kept.

I owed my discovery of this place to Vinnie – Vincenzo Marino, my manager, my friend, and occasional voice of reason. He knew everything about everything – and what he didn’t, he had ways of finding out.

He had dragged me here after one too many nights spent staring into empty bottles.

‘You need this,’ he’d growled, ‘to stop being such a goddamn nuisance.’

But Vinnie didn’t understand. This wasn’t about sex – not for me. It was about control, about exploring the darker corners of myself in a place where those shadows weren’t just tolerated – they were welcomed.

Inside, Obsidian was a study in contrasts – silken drapes, gilded mirrors, chandeliers scattering fractured light. Amber and musk clung to the air. Voices murmured low, their secrets a shared illusion.

However, even here, where masks replaced faces and shame had no place, order ruled.

Obsidian’s laws were sacred. No unmasking without consent.

No photos. No touch without a signed agreement.

Safe words were lifelines, enforced by silent, suited attendants who moved like spectres.

Break the rules, and you weren’t just banned – you vanished. No second chances.

Yet, even with such order, there was always an undercurrent of danger. The anonymity offered was intoxicating, but it also meant you never truly knew who was behind the mask. A politician. A doctor. A criminal. They all walked these halls, drawn to the darkness.

Just like I was.

Because traditional dating wasn’t an option for me – not for the kind of things I needed.

I had… needs, yes, that was what I’d call them. I didn’t have to fuck a woman to get off. I needed to hear her, see her react to things I did to her.

And those needs couldn’t be whispered about, let alone indulged in the daylight. Needs that, if discovered, could even have me locked away.

Or worse.

Obsidian had been the perfect solution to my particular state of mind. The women I’d seen so far were stunning, curated to fucking perfection. And they were real, not some fucking actresses. They were just like me. They needed things to be done to them, and to do things to others.

The online portal was very private, and only if our profiles matched would we see each other’s.

But even in this haven, I had yet to find a woman willing – or perhaps brave enough – to venture into the depths of my kind of fantasy. I eased them into it at first, but as I pushed ahead, they’d all eventually balked, no matter how well they initially did.

Before entering tonight, I’d signed the waiver, as always. A standard agreement outlining the boundaries, the rules, the risks. Nothing too physical, nothing illegal, everything consensual.

Then there were those beautiful safe words. A far cry from what I truly craved, but close enough to keep the worst of the darkness at bay.

As I adjusted the mask for the last time and stared at the mirrored door leading into the lounge, I let out a slow breath.

Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe tonight, someone would see the monster lurking beneath the surface and decide not to run. Or maybe they would just run, like the rest. And I would go home too early – again. Crack open another bottle and watch my life go by.

Either way, Cain D’Angelo would remain a phantom in this place.

Finally, I made myself step into the small, private lounge. My boots echoed against the dark-grey relief tiles, each step reverberating like the toll of a guillotine bell. And wasn’t that the truth of it.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew – the more I indulged, the deeper I sank, the quicker I plummeted into the black mire of my own desires.

A bitter smile crossed my lips as I pushed the thought aside. No room for self-loathing here. Not tonight.

My eyes landed on the black duffel bag resting in the low-lit corner, the contents as ominous as the setting.

I’d packed it methodically, as always, and its contents mostly consisted of weapons.

Real ones. The sharp, cold steel and the loaded weight.

Some of them, I bought purely for effect. Others, well…

Getting these inside wasn’t simple. The bag had to clear inspection – every item declared in advance and logged before entering the lounge.

Obsidian didn’t allow weapons on any of the floors.

Officially. But this was a fantasy lounge.

And some fantasies? They had a sharp edge – tucked neatly in a zippered lining, for those who could afford to bend the rules.

I moved to the large, round bed dominating the room. Its dark silken sheets seemed absurdly decadent. The beams overhead were adorned with chains and leather shackles. With a push of a button, they could descend and the chains could extend and retract.

That wouldn’t come into use today.

My gaze found the metal chair with straps in front of the bed.

That was how I started them.

I sank onto the mattress and let the headboard catch my weight. The tension in my shoulders eased just enough to make me feel human. For a moment.

How the fuck was I here again?