nineteen
-Ares -
I grip the wheel tighter as we approach the address Whitlock gave us. My knuckles are whitening with the pressure as the devil inside me yearns for blood.
Brynn sits beside me. She’s been silent until now, as if feeling the war raging within me. She knows the true hunt hasn’t even begun. John Ashford awaits, unaware that he's no longer the predator but the prey. I have a feeling he’s just a name on the list among many.
"We're close," I say as we reach a district that’s a mix of industrial decay and the new city. Abandoned warehouses have been transformed into overpriced lofts and exclusive venues, but the stink of desperation still clings to these streets.
I park in a discreet lot beside a renovated warehouse. The building's exterior offers little indication of its real purpose, kind of like most of my facilities.
There are no signs, just an expensive black door with a security camera, way too state-of-the-art for how the warehouse looks.
"Don’t do anything unless I signal you to," I tell Brynn as we approach, knowing how invested she really is in this and how easy it would be for her to snap. Almost as easy as it is for me.
I ring the door, and a man dressed in black lets us in, signaling us to go down the stairs.
We descend the narrow corridor until we reach a luxurious room painted gold. The reception area. Black, plush Chesterfield furniture sits atop polished marble floors. Dim lighting casts shadows across walls filled with erotic abstract art that depicts different states of submission and dominance.
The scent of expensive cologne mingles with something else, a faint hint of sweat and sex.
"This isn't what I expected," Brynn murmurs, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in our surroundings.
A woman approaches us, her body encased in a corset of black leather that accentuates her impossible curves. Silver chains connect across her outfit, tinkling softly as she moves with too much sensuality to be just the receptionist.
"Welcome to the Exclusivista," she purrs, her eyes lingering on me, then switching to Brynn. "Do you have a reservation, or are you here as guests of a member?"
"John Ashford," I reply. "We have a meeting scheduled at noon."
Her perfectly injected lips curve upward.
"Ah, yes. I’m Mr. Ashford’s assistant. He mentioned you might be early.
It may be a while... He's currently... tied up.
" She pauses, trying to hold back her amusement.
"In all senses of the word. If you'd like to wait in our main area, I can bring you a drink. "
She gestures toward a doorway draped with black satin curtains, through which the sounds of music and distant moans spill.
"Lead on," I smile, placing my hand at the small of Brynn's back as we follow the woman. This is certainly going to be interesting.
Beyond the curtain, the true nature of the club is revealed. The space opens into a series of elegantly designed areas. Some of them are open, others semi-private behind the same black satin curtains or privacy screens, and some even behind closed doors.
In one corner, a woman suspended in an intricate web of red rope, twists slowly. Her naked body trembling as a masked figure traces patterns across her skin with a feather, only to lash his whip a few times over her tender flesh. Not that she seems to complain. More like moan from the pleasure.
Nearby, a man with a Zorro mask covering the upper part of his face, but still holding on to his expensive suit, kneels before a dominatrix, his lips showing off a hint of ecstasy and surrender as she presses a stiletto heel against his chest, giving him—and us—a clear view of her lack of panties.
The air vibrates with the mingled scents of arousal, leather, and the faint metallic scent of blood from where boundaries are being tested.
These kinds of places have existed since civilization’s dawn. Sex has always been the most powerful currency, even among the most devout Christians. Everything comes down to sex because, in the end, it’s the only thing that keeps humanity going.
All of this resonates with something primal inside me. With the beast that understands power exchange at its most fundamental level.
I feel Brynn's pulse quicken beneath my fingers, her breathing shifting subtly as her eyes dart from one scene to another.
She's not shocked. I've seen enough of her fantasies to know better. Instead, there's a curious hunger in her gaze that catches my attention, and I can’t help but explore it. The assistant did say Ashford won’t be with us for a while.
"This way to the private lounges," our guide says, leading us to a quieter section where plush seating areas offer some separation from the main floor.
Once seated, I pull out my phone and send a message to 404 from my encrypted number.
Ares: What the fuck is this place? Did you know about this?
404: Boss?
Me: It’s a fucking sex club.
404: Hang on... Exclusivista.
404: Oh shit. It's an exclusive BDSM club. Membership by invitation only…
404: Opened three years ago, ownership obscured through shell companies.
404: I'm finding financial connections to Ashford. He's a major investor, if not the actual owner.
I don’t text back, just call the man who is assigned to watch over Whitlock.
“Put him on. Now,” I mutter, not bothering with any other explanation.
“Yes, sir,” the guard replies, short of breath as he’s already moving toward Whitlock. “Ready, sir.”
"You neglected to mention the nature of this establishment," I say, watching a man across the room willingly accept a collar from his partner.
"I... I thought you knew," Whitlock stammers. "Ashford's preferences aren't exactly a secret in certain circles. This is just one of his many side ventures."
"What else should I know about?" I ask, keeping my voice low but menacing—just in case anyone is listening.
A pause. "Nothing else that I know of. Ashford also owns a few strip clubs in Belltown and a high-end escort service that caters to visiting executives and politicians."
I end the call without responding, then dial 404’s number. "Dig deeper into our host. I want everything."
"Already on it," he replies. "Just found something interesting. Ashford was named in a prostitution investigation by the DA's office last year, but his name mysteriously disappeared from the final report. The DA received a substantial contribution two weeks later."
Ashford’s assistant returns, carrying two glasses of whiskey.
"Mr. Ashford sends his apologies for the delay. He wasn’t expecting you till a little later.
He's completing a... session... and will join you in about an hour.
" Her eyes linger on Brynn, trying to decide how to handle this delay.
"I’m sorry for this inconvenience. As you wait, perhaps you'd like a more personal tour of our facilities?
We have private rooms available for... exploration. "
"We're not here to play," my voice drops lower, finding that dangerous tone that’s in direct contradiction to the arousal brewing inside me. Yes, that’s also dangerous—for Brynn’s body. "But.. I might make an exception if this takes too long. Maybe even make him wait for me."
Brynn’s eyes widen slightly in a mix of intrigue and arousal as the assistant withdraws.
"We’re here for business," she says, her voice carrying a hint of amusement but also intrigue. "Focus on that."
I scan the room again, assessing potential threats disguised as pleasure-seekers.
"Everyone here is performing," I say, sipping the surprisingly excellent whiskey. It’s not like I could get poisoned. Well, I’ve been poisoned several times in the past, and ended up with a bitter aftertaste for hours.
Not as bitter as what I fed to the ones who made the attempt, though.
Brynn's eyes meet mine. "Let them perform as we wait," she punctuates the words, like she’s a little afraid of what might be going through my mind.
I smile, feeling the evil stir beneath my skin. "I could demand to see him right now. But this time, I don’t think I’ll mind the wait."
I don’t ask for permission before I drag Brynn away from the main floor, my hand locked firmly around her wrist and my eyes still alert to any danger.
The sexual energy of this place has wound me tight, awakening my hunger for her. And I don’t like to let time go to waste.
We pass several occupied rooms, and I can catch glimpses of naked bodies and restraints through some partially open doors. Some of them leave the doors like this, so that anyone can come and watch. I enjoy a good show from time to time, but I have different plans now.
At the end of a dimly lit corridor, I find what I'm looking for—a vacant suite designed for privacy. I drag her inside, locking the door behind us so there’s no escape.
This wasn't part of the plan when it came to Ashford, but plans change when necessity demands it. And right now, my body is the necessity demanding hers.
The room is all about dark luxury. Black walls absorb light rather than reflect it, making even midday look like midnight.
A king-sized bed sits in the center of the space, black silk sheets, a few metal loops embedded in different parts of the walls, reinforced anchor points in the ceiling, and a few pieces of furniture designed specifically for restraint. So little time, so many possibilities.
“Ares,” she warns, knowing exactly what I’m thinking and also knowing no warning is gonna stop me.
"We have time to kill," I say, relaxed, though my body betrays my impatience. Especially since this place has given me a few new ideas.
I step closer, close enough to feel the scent of arousal on her. "You look amazing in this outfit," I say, looking at the long, stylish flared black pants and the matching top-- cut low enough in the front to let the round swell of her breast tease me, "but I think I want to see it on the floor."