CHAPTER 3
KIRBY
Even though I’ve tried to ignore it the entire time I was preparing for coming back to Seattle for the first time in ten years, I can’t ignore the flood of panic and fear overtaking me now that I’m here. I learned a long time ago that ignoring the way I was feeling didn’t help me. I had to acknowledge and accept my feelings before I could move on.
Why I thought I could just pretend like planning to be in Seattle wouldn’t make me feel like I was right back in that horrible, dark place I was in ten years ago, I’ll never know. It was easier to ignore it than try to accept how difficult it was going to be.
I would have canceled my plans, my contract, and put my head in the sand. But that’s not the woman I’ve turned myself into. I’m not the same as I was ten years ago when my life was irrevocably changed.
I’m stronger now. I’m better equipped to deal with the horrors that life can throw at you without warning. I can protect myself. I’ve built a life I’m damn proud of, one that allowed me to travel around the world, meet new people, and keep hold of the control I’ve cultivated.
Sure, I’ve held onto my control so tightly because I don’t trust easily. Or at all.
I’ve earned that need for control. It’s not like I wanted to live my life this way, but trauma was thrust upon me and changed my life. Even after all this time, I don’t think about when I was taken. At least, I try not to.
Does it sneak into my thoughts and nightmares sometimes? Unfortunately.
After a shit ton of therapy and a lot of physical training, which was recommended by my therapist and included weapons and hand-to-hand training, I’ve accepted that my past will never leave me entirely. I’ve made peace with that; well, as much as possible.
As much as I’ve dreaded this trip from the moment that I booked it, I’m also proud as hell at myself. I’m here. In Seattle.
I haven’t been here in ten years after spending the first 18 years of my life here. It’s a bittersweet return because the reason I left is valid as hell, but I still abandoned everything I knew. My mom, since she was the only parent I’ve had for as long as I can remember, understood why I needed to leave. That doesn’t mean she liked it.
I think she wanted to be able to slay my demons because she’s a damn good mom, but it wasn’t possible. Even when I was safe and no longer being held by men who broke me and intended to sell me, I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder all the time. There was no way I could relax while expecting someone to pop out of the shadows and grab me again.
No matter how much I tried to empower myself with learning physical defense techniques and proper use of a weapon, while also seeing my therapist, they didn’t help. Nothing helped me feel safe. My mom and my therapist told me to give it time.
I didn’t believe I would ever feel safe in Seattle again and after a few months, I decided that I needed to leave.
It took me time to get my confidence back, even with the training and therapy. Feeling like I wasn’t about to jump out of my own skin was a feat, but when I started to tackle the sexual component of becoming whole, I didn’t even know where to start.
It was a twist of fate that led me to enter a kink club for the first time. It was all happenstance because I overheard a conversation about it at the coffee shop where I was working on the other side of the country since going as far as possible was the only logical conclusion when I started running.
The first time I went to the club, I just observed. Thankfully, I met someone who was willing to walk me through everything. She became a great friend, eventually, after she got past the walls that I used to guard myself and my emotions from anyone getting close to me. Now I can look back and see that I still felt broken and used. It was easier to keep people at a distance than letting them in and risking them seeing who I was underneath the mask I was desperate to keep in place.
The more I learned about the kink world, the more I found a sense of control. It’s what I needed in order to find any semblance of my sexuality again. I couldn’t give up control, that became clear very early on in my exploration of everything the kink world had to offer. Giving up control required trust, and I simply didn’t have the capacity for that.
Even though I started exploring the kink world for myself, to find something that had been taken from me, I found more than I expected. I turned it into so much more than a quest to find my own pleasure. As I sought to be responsible with the control I demanded, I found out something I would have never thought before—there are men out there who crave giving up control.
Becoming a dominatrix, especially one that has created a business around my need for control, wasn’t something I could have foreseen for myself. But it’s changed my life.
Not only am I in control of my sexuality now and empowered, but my job has allowed me to explore the world in ways I wouldn’t have been able to without my job.
And just to be clear—my job doesn’t necessarily require me to have sex with the men I dominate. Does it happen? Sometimes. But it’s not a given nor is it a requirement in the contract I have with a sub.
Normally, it’s not even the men I dominate that is hiring me. It’s really the club that hires me to come to their club and work. I’ll do demonstrations and scenes for club members, and I’ll take on subs while I’m working out of a club.
My job is what has brought me back to Seattle. I’ll be working in Seattle’s Club Sin. It’s not the first time I’ve worked for Club Sin since they have locations across the country. It must have been luck that prevented them from asking me to visit their Seattle location before now.
Fuck.
I’m sweating.
Just being in this city has me on edge. I know that the men who took me, the ones who tortured me and changed the path of my life, are no longer breathing. But that’s not helping the fear clawing at my soul. Part of me wishes I had been with it enough back then to ask to watch the life drain out of all the men there.
But I wasn’t.
Still, I believe the men who rescued me from that warehouse of horrors when they said those men were dead. I don’t remember many of the men’s faces who saved us, but I remember the leather cuts they wore. I was already aware of the Devil’s Saints MC, but it was the first time I had any contact with them.
One of the women being held with me kept mumbling about her brother saving her and that his club would help him. At the time, I thought it was all just wishful thinking on her part. Then the warehouse was stormed, and we got to experience freedom again.
Not every man who rescued us were wearing leather cuts. No, three men stood out because of they weren’t wearing cuts. That wasn’t the only thing different about them, but so much of that night is a blur. I remember how it felt more than exactly what happened.
I’ve accepted that there are things from that time that I’ve lost. Even as much as fear wanted to drown me when we were rescued after being surrounded by evil men, the three men who weren’t wearing cuts felt so fucking solid to me. There was just something about them.
I shake off the feeling as I enter The Centennial building where Club Sin sits at the top. I came by yesterday after I arrived in Seattle to make sure everything was in order and to get a little tour. The main floor, which sits on the 36 th floor of The Centennial, is gorgeous. The large windows give a great view of Seattle, even though I tried not to focus on the city surrounding us when I saw the club yesterday.
After finding my reserved table in the lounge, which is where I’ll be interviewing those who have applied to be dominated by me while I’m visiting, I try and force myself to relax. It’s not easy and I know it has nothing to do with who I’ll be meeting. I have three interviews tonight and I’m not sure if I’ll even get through those.
Everything in me is screaming to run back to my hotel and hide in the dark under the blanket on the giant bed.
But I can’t do that.
I watch the flow in the lounge as I wait for my first interview because watching my surroundings has become second nature. I can feel eyes on me, but it doesn’t give me the feeling of danger.
I’ve learned to trust my gut in the last ten years, and I know I’m safe right now. At least as safe as I can be in Seattle.
“Mistress?”
The tentative question has me abandoning my perusal of the lounge to take in the man standing a few feet from my table. I tilt my head as I observe him. He’s standing at his full height which would be intimidating if he weren’t looking at my chin. I almost smile because it’s clear to me that he’s being respectful of me.
“Charles,” I don’t say his name like a question because I’m not asking.
“Yes, ma’am,” he bows his head slightly.
I give a nod, but I don’t invite him to sit with me. Not yet.
As the silence stretches between us, I can see the strain grow on his face. With all my attention focused on him, it’s clear to me how much he wants to fidget. But, to his credit, he doesn’t. Not much, anyway.
When he shifts his weight from one foot to the other slightly for the fifth time, I take pity on him.
“Please, Charles, have a seat,” my voice is an offering as I motion toward the chair across from me.
With my back against the wall, I will be the only thing he’ll be allowed to focus on. Just the way I like it.
From the applications I was given yesterday, I’m aware of his desires and his limits, but a paper can’t tell me what I really need to know. Some men think they want to be dominated, especially if they haven’t done it much before, but when they’re faced with a woman who expect the power exchange to be respected, they change their tune.
That’s why I insist on interviewing subs outside of a sexually charged situation. For men who aren’t the right fit for me, they won’t be able to have me take the lead. They’ll try to lead the conversation or move it along.
“Thank you,” Charles murmurs softly as he settles into the chair.
Even though he sits up straight, there’s something relaxed about him. He keeps his eyes on the table with small glances up at me, but he isn’t furtively stealing looks around the lounge. There’s no nervousness in his body language, just curiosity and a little nervousness that I would expect considering he doesn’t know me.
“Tell me, Charles, would you be okay with being part of one of the public demonstrations I’ll be putting on while I’m here?”
He swallows hard but doesn’t flinch. It’s a good sign.
When he glances up at me, he doesn’t make eye contact again. “I wouldn’t have a problem with that, Mistress.” As he shifts in his chair slightly, he clears his throat. “Is calling you Mistress your preference? Or would you prefer something else?”
In order to stop myself from grinning, I press my lips together. “Good boy,” I coo at him, and I swear he preens under my praise. “I appreciate you asking especially since I didn’t correct you the first time.” He sucks in a breath, probably not fully realizing that he already used the honorific when he wasn’t given permission. I chuckle softly when he pales slightly. “It’s fine. I know your intention was to be respectful of not only my role, but my position with the club. I won’t punish you for it, Charles,” there’s a slightly tease in my voice, but also a promise that I might punish him for taking such liberties in the future.
His lips tip up slightly, a ghost of a smile showing me just what he thinks about the possibility of being punished by me.
I relax back into my chair and wave my hand dismissively as I answer his initial question. “Mistress works for me, Charles.”
“Thank you,” he whispers softly.
“Let’s talk about what you’re looking for and what you aren’t looking for. Even though I read your application, I think it’s important to make sure we’re on the same page before I take on a sub, temporarily or not.”
When he nods, I almost laugh because he reminds me of an eager puppy. I know he’s only my first interview, but I have a good feeling about Charles. Not only does he seem to understand the dynamics, but there’s an authenticity that men who only apply to work with me because they want a chance to flip the script don’t have.
“While we chat, Charles, please look me in the eyes. I need to be able to see your sincerity,” I pause until he makes eye contact and give him a small, pride filled smile, “and you need to see mine.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
I give a nod and then we start having a conversation which, from the outside, looks like any interaction two people at a coffee shop would have. It’s not though. We go over all of his hard and soft limits, our experience with power exchange, and why he applied to be a sub for me while I’m visiting.
The more I talk with Charles, the more I consider taking him on. With more interviews scheduled, I won’t decide quite yet. The longer I sit and focus on my job, the less daunting being back in Seattle feels.
Maybe I’ll even be able to enjoy my stay here.