Chapter 4
Chapter Four
On his way to check in with the bartender, Drake felt the vibrations in his pocket and pulled out his phone. Ah, his executive assistant. “Tiago, what’s the newest disaster?”
His EA laughed. “Only a minor one.”
“There’s a relief. Go on.”
“It’s about the BDSM convention next month. Your presenter for the flogging workshop called with apologies. His mother went on hospice, and he wants to stay close to home.”
“Merde.” Drake sighed. “Of course he would. But this is inconvenient.”
“Right? I thought maybe you’d ask someone from the club? Since you’re there and can get anyone to say yes to anything.”
He might have a talent for persuasion, but he wasn’t that good. “Very logical. However, it’s healthy to find presenters from elsewhere. Gives our community new ideas.”
“Ah, got it.”
“I’ll have to call in favors to obtain someone on short notice.”
“Good thing you know people from everywhere. But best of luck, boss.”
“Merci.” Pocketing his phone, Drake sighed.
As the owner of a BDSM club, he considered education part of his responsibilities and was proud to be part of putting on one of the country’s most popular BDSM conferences with excellent speakers and workshop presenters—ones who were more than merely well-known.
Unfortunately, having a renowned reputation didn’t guarantee the person was competent or ethical.
Drake tapped his fingers on the bar top. He did know someone who loved teaching flogging, and it’d been a while since he’d seen Simon and Rona. Could he lure them up here for a week or so?
“Master Drake.” On the other side of the bar, the bartender lifted her eyebrows in a want-a-drink query.
“Thank you, nothing now. Everything quiet here?”
“Yes, everyone’s playing by the rules.” Nediva’s husky voice had a pronounced New York accent. “As they had best be.”
Drake grinned. No one messed with the tough Domme with a cap of steel-gray hair. Too many had discovered the extra-short crop worn on her belt was the perfect length to discipline anyone overstepping the bounds at the bar.
“Good evening, Master Drake.” A brunette in her 40s, one of the newer members, slid onto a bar stool. “Have you already been downstairs and done a scene?”
“No, I haven’t been here long.” And hadn’t planned to participate. No one had caught his interest since Justine, and he preferred something more meaningful than a quick pick-up scene. “How about you?”
“Not yet.” The woman gave the bartender a meltingly hopeful smile. “I’d like to play later. Maybe when someone takes her break.”
From the way Nediva’s eyes heated, Drake thought the brunette’s chances were good.
“Yo, Drake.” Bob, a friend and one of the co-founders of Chains, joined him. Lynn, his submissive was tucked under his arm.
“Mon ami, it is good to see you and your Lynn.”
The quiet submissive gave Drake a sweet smile.
“So anyone have plans for next weekend?” Bob asked. The conversation turned to sailing and picnics. Everyone wanted to take advantage of the predicted sunny August weather.
“If it isn’t my favorite Frenchie.”
At the familiar voice, Drake turned to greet Blaize. “It’s been a while since we saw you here.”
A few years older, in his late thirties, Blaize had maintained the beefy build of his college football days.
“Hey, Professor.” Bob smiled. “How’s the teaching business?”
“I swear the undergrads get dumber every year. And the tax laws get more convoluted and harder to teach.”
Drake looked around, spotted Blaize’s slave coming from the bar with a drink. She set it on a nearby table and settled on her knees beside the chair, eyes downcast.
“I see your slave is working hard at being correct,” Drake said.
Bob and Lynn turned to look.
“Yes, slave-girl gets off on keeping me happy. Some women are suited to the role.” Blaize grinned. Well respected in the community, he’d been in the lifestyle as long as Drake had. “And I enjoy being a Master. Didn’t you try it once?”
“I fear the dynamic doesn’t suit me.” Drake shrugged off the memory of that time in his past. Although he hadn’t been happy as a Master to a slave, Ramona was a lovely woman, and he’d missed her company afterward.
“I was looking over the convention workshops. You’re teaching a class on degradation in BDSM. ”
“My favorite subject.” Blaize waggled his heavy eyebrows, one of which was bisected by a white scar. He glanced at his slave. “Eh, it’s time to get some play in. See you later.” He slapped Drake’s back and headed off.
“Ew, degradation. I know he’s very good at teaching, but I’m not into humiliation or degradation or objectification either.” Lynn rubbed her head on Bob’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re you. It’s a shame others don’t have a Master as wonderful as mine.”
Bob laughed. “Sucking up, snookums? Are you wanting to negotiate something more intense for our session? Or…something sexy?”
As red rolled into Lynn’s face, Drake grinned. “I fear I must head downstairs. One of the dungeon monitors is new.”
“You go on. We have some talking to do.” Bob pulled his submissive closer.
At the stairs, Drake stopped and held out his hands so the bouncer could see he had no mark confining him to upstairs.
“Very good, Master Drake.” The bouncer grinned and waved him past.
The atmosphere in the dungeon was markedly different from upstairs. The chatter of conversation was missing. The music volume was lower. After all, it would be a shame to miss a huff of breath from the first stroke of an impact toy. A grunt of pain, panting. Or even better, a moan of arousal.
He didn’t miss having a submissive. Although fun in the beginning, the relationship with Justine had deteriorated quickly.
He did miss the delight of planning and carrying out a scene that would fill a submissive’s needs—even ones she didn’t know about.
Bottoms had subspace, but for Tops, there was Domspace, a gratifying utter focus, and it was even better when the Top and bottom were on the same wavelength.
The crack of a whip came from the far corner. Closer was the buzz and crackle of a violet wand. Here and there were sounds of sobbing, the occasional scream, low-voice commands, groans.
Music to his ears.
Rather than the scent of perfumes and colognes upstairs, down here it was leather, sweat, and sex. Raw humanity.
Hands behind his back, Drake strolled past scene after scene. Smiling when greeted. Nodding approval when a new Dom displayed good techniques. Even Dominants liked positive feedback.
He always checked on the dungeon monitors, thankfully easy to spot in their orange vests. The new monitor still appeared slightly timid but was holding up well. Farther on, the most experienced DM was keeping an eye on a prior approved wax-play scene.
In the oversized corner space, a whip scene had gathered an audience, including Alex’s and Peter’s submissives. Odd. Were they here without their Doms?
Keeping an eye out for Alex and Peter, he noticed a young woman behind the spiderweb. Had she dropped something?
Who was she? Frowning, he detoured toward the scene area. He knew all the members.
Average figure on the slender side. Fair skin. Her shoulder-length, red-brown hair with scattered blue strands was so curly it sprang outward to dwarf her heart-shaped face.
Not a jaw-dropping beauty…but intriguing.
Was that a tape measure in her hands?
The dungeon was noisy enough he could barely hear her talking to herself. “Four foot, four inches. Remember it. Damn this stupid place’s rules. I need my phone.”
What in the world? Was she prepping for a scene? Drake moved closer.
She tried to bend to measure the lower restraint cuffs and couldn’t. “Stupid bodice. Who invented this device of torment? Must’ve been a man. Imma find him, wrap the strings around his balls, and pull until everything squishes.”
Interesting way to neuter someone. Was she a sadist? Her attire signaled submission.
Dropping to her knees, she used the tape measure between the bottom cuffs.
Why? Drake crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat.
Her head snapped up. Spotting him, she froze.
Zut, he’d frightened her. He didn’t deliberately intimidate submissives, but sometimes he wondered if he gave off predatory monster vibes.
Ray couldn’t draw in a breath. The man—holy cryptids—he was the Dom from upstairs.
Not only gorgeous but terrifying. A good half a foot taller than her.
Gray-flecked black hair, eyes as dark as the onyx studs in his ears.
A thick, precisely shaped goatee formed a circle around his mouth and over his chin.
A black shirt and black vest couldn’t conceal streamlined muscles, and the way his arms were crossed made his biceps look like boulders.
“Um, hello?” Why had she let MacKensie and Hope leave?
Shoving the tape measure, pencil, and notepad in her pockets, she tried to get to her feet but had crawled too far beneath the tilted metal frame.
The boning in her bodice was less rigid than a corset—but still made bending…
difficult. “I hate clothes,” she muttered.
“Permettez-moi.” The deep voice was smoother than the bark of a young madrone and way too compelling.
Bending, he offered her his hand.
After crawling backward, she tried again to push up. Not happening. Do people die of embarrassment? Oh, you betcha. She could already feel a heart attack approaching.
When she set her hand in his much bigger one, he pulled her easily to her feet.
“Th-thank you.” Flushing, she took a step back. Or…she tried. The stupid spiderweb was right behind her.
He didn’t release her hand. Eyes as dark as a moonless night studied her. “Might I inquire as to what you were doing?” He pursed his lips.
Mmm, he had a great mouth, perfectly framed by the black mustache and beard, the bottom lip bigger than the top. How could lips look firm and soft at the same time?
Those lips tightened slightly.
Oh. Oh. He’d asked a question. “Measuring… I was measuring.”