Prologue #2
“Don’t worry, I'm not stalking you,” he says, laughing as if he heard my thoughts.
“I work here.” He points to his left pec, where the club’s logo strains against the tight fit of his shirt, then twists his body so I can see the word security emblazoned across the back.
“I’m technically off duty, but I noticed you seemed distressed, so I came over to make sure everything was okay on this side of the room, and we ended up bumping into each other. ”
“So you… uh, play here as well as work?”
“Not usually.”
“Not usually?”
He shrugs. “I’m more of a casual observer. Curious. Like you.”
My brow furrows. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“Oh, honey,” he says in a way that is both patronizing and endearing. “It would be impossible to mistake a sweet thing like yourself.” He winks.
“I told you–” I cut myself off and clear my throat, forcing myself not to take the bait. A quick glance at the smirk on his face tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“I’m Scott,” he says, holding out his hand. I stare at it for longer than is polite before reluctantly accepting the handshake. His hand is warm, grip strong but not at all crushing.
I wonder how much he has to hold back to keep his size and strength in check?
I’m over six feet and pretty fit, but my musculature is lean like a swimmer rather than bulky like the brick shithouse practically towering over me.
Still, despite his size, he doesn’t have an intimidating presence.
His smile and soft eyes are kind even in the ominous shadows of this room.
Scott is waiting expectantly, and I realize I haven’t told him my name. I don’t want to. Instead, I change the subject.
“So you work here and then stay for the show?” I ask tilting my head towards the leather bench where the blond sub is now being held down and spread apart by two men while his master puts his already massive cock into some kind of terrifying studded sleeve contraption that looks like it would tear up somebody’s insides.
Christ. Did I walk in on some kind of torture scene tonight?
I thought I’d seen it all, but this is a whole different level of pain kink than I’ve seen before.
My face must betray my feelings, because Scott laughs. The deep, warm chuckle sinks into my nerve endings, making me feel warm and tingly. It pulls my attention back to him. Is he really this happy, or is it for show?
He’s probably a serial killer.
I notice his raised eyebrow. “What? I’m not judging or anything, it’s just too much for me.”
“That’s the cool thing I’ve noticed about this kind of thing,” Scott says, returning his attention to the show, where a fourth man is pushing his cock into the sub’s mouth while the dom rubs his now studded dick up and down the sub’s crack.
“There are all levels of kink and control, and it’s flexible.
The thing that matters most is the trust and understanding between the dominant and the submissive.
These guys, for example, they’re pretty hardcore into the kink, but they’re also fully immersed in the lifestyle.
Others just like to play on occasion, and you can pick and choose what you’re into and avoid what you’re not. "
“What do you mean, lifestyle?”
“BDSM is more than just kinky sex. It actually doesn’t have to be sexual at all. It’s about the consensual, safe exchange of power.”
Huh. Interesting.
“So where do you fit into all this?” I ask.
Scott shrugs. “Like I said, I’m mostly a casual observer. I’ve played a little here and there, but nothing very advanced or serious.”
“I bet you’re good at it.”
My lips press together. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
Scott chuckles again, and it turns into a warm tingly feeling that trickles down from the base of my neck and down my spine.
“Would you like to find out?”
I sputter. “Uh– I’m sorry, what?”
“You seem curious. What’s had you coming back so many times?”
My lungs expand with a slow, controlled breath that I let out quietly, taking the moment to steel my nerves.
I don’t need this man noticing how off-kilter he’s making me feel, how much he’s actually making me consider putting action behind all the thoughts and fantasies that have been plaguing me since the first time I walked in on a scene like this.
“I like watching the sub let go,” I admit, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. “It’s… fascinating.”
Scott nods. “Makes sense. You seem kind of wound tight.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He smiles widely. “I bet you have some kind of high-powered, stressful job where you have to be on all the time. Am I right?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Like I said, you’re wound tight. If not for the tattoos and piercings, I might see you as some kind of big shot corporate master of the world, but something tells me you’re more of an intellectual type.”
“Finance bros can’t have tattoos and be intellectual?”
Scott holds up his hands. “That wasn’t meant as an insult. I like this whole bad boy thing you’ve got going for you.” His eyes openly roam over me appreciatively. “Like, a lot.”
I huff out a laugh. “Okay, so you think you can read me?”
“If I were going to take care of you, I would need to.”
“Take care of me?” I scoff.
“The exchange is about giving, not taking. The role of the dominant isn’t about bossing someone around, abusing them for the fun of it, or taking what you want from them. It’s about giving the sub what they need.”
I should probably walk away, but I’m intrigued. Enough to hear him out a little at the very least. “And what is it you think I need?”
“To let go,” he says simply. “You already said it, but I could have guessed by the way you watch the scenes when you’re here. Most people pay attention to the action, to whatever ass is being turned out or turned red, but your eyes stay locked on the sub. On their face. And you look…”
“How do I look?”
“Desperate.”
“Oh wow, thanks.”
He barks out a laugh and leans down into my personal space. His breath smells sweet like he just finished eating something fruity, and it triggers my mouth to water. “You look like you want something you think you’ll never have. But you’re wrong.”
I can’t speak. Hell, I can barely breathe. All I am capable of right now is staring up at his dark, kind eyes.
“Why don’t you want to tell me your name?”
His intense stare pulls the answer out of me before I can give it any thought.
“Because I don’t want to be me.”
Scott reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Then who do you want to be?”
“I want to be… No one. Nothing.” An empty canvas. A weightless, worriless body incapable of thought, or anything other than feeling whatever pain or pleasure is doled out to me from another person.
“I can give you that.”
Scott’s voice is hypnotic, and the way his eyes bore into mine makes me feel like he can see me. Like, really see me. And he doesn’t hate what he sees.
I feel split in half.
Part of me thinks I should run, get the fuck out of here right now and never look back.
The other part, the part that’s had me skulking around the edges of this room trying to figure out what keeps luring me here, wants to give him a chance.
And the way his eyes hold mine makes me feel strangely safe.
Safe and accepted in a way I don’t think anyone has ever made me feel.
I drop my gaze to the floor, blinking away whatever spell his eyes have me under, then take another slow, controlled breath. My heart is beating faster than any of my drum solos, and I wonder if he can hear it, too. It’s loud enough to drown out the music in the background.
Slowly, I raise my eyes to his again, looking at him from beneath my lashes. Something unspoken passes between us, and it seems to be enough for Scott. He cups my jaw and tips my head up before kissing me lightly on the forehead.
“I’ll take care of you, sweet thing,” he murmurs against my hair. Then he walks me backward, farther into the shadows and around the side of the room, where I have a good enough vantage point to see my surroundings, but the shadows are dark enough that it would be difficult to see me clearly.
Scott reaches for a few silk ties on a hook and holds them up for me to see.
I don’t make a move or say anything to stop him, so he steps forward and covers my eyes with the first tie.
He ties it loosely enough that it just covers the top part of my mask, allowing a small gap beneath the fabric that helps me feel less claustrophobic.
His breath is warm against my face as he ties it off, his voice gentle as he lays out some rules and assures me.
“We’ll use a basic traffic light safe word system. Green means go, yellow means slow down. You use that if you’re feeling close to your limit on something but don’t want to stop. If you say red, everything stops, no hesitation and no questions asked. Do you understand?”
I nod, suddenly feeling very nervous. Am I really doing this?
“Is this okay?” He asks, moving behind me and pulling my arms behind my back, wrists crossed. I nod again, but he stops and leans in. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Yes. Uh– Green, I mean.” Even being pushed to say the words is sending a different kind of energy surging through my veins.
Scott ties my hands behind my back, then walks around me slowly. With my senses dulled the way they are, with my hands tied, blindfolded, and the hypnotic beat of the music, my awareness of him triples. I can feel his presence like a heaviness in the air, feel his eyes roaming every inch of me.
“I’m going to unbutton your shirt so I can see you.” He phrases it as a statement, but I can hear the request for permission in the silence after he says it.
“Green.”
He deftly opens my button-down shirt, the barely there touch of his fingertips scorching a path down my torso.
Cool air touches my skin, and I realize he’s situated us beneath an air vent.
Something about the moment makes me feel like that isn’t coincidental, and I’m grateful for it because I’m burning up.