Chapter 20 Emma #2
We'd barely settled into the cushions when a man appeared at the edge of my vision.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Silver threading through dark hair at his temples. He moved toward us with easy confidence.
"Damien—"
Damien held up a hand, palm out. A small gesture, but firm.
The man stopped mid-stride. His gaze flicked to me—assessing, understanding—and his smile shifted into something softer. A nod. An acknowledgment.
Without a word, he pivoted smoothly, crossing the room to another man lounging near the pink corner. They clasped hands like old friends, falling into easy conversation as if that had been his destination all along.
I watched the exchange, brow furrowed. "What was that about?"
"Todd," Damien said. "We've known each other for years."
"I gathered." I tilted my head. "Why'd you wave him off?"
Damien's fingers landed on my knee, thumb tracing slow circles against the fabric of my dress. "Because you just walked into a world you've never seen before. You're overwhelmed—"
I balked.
"Don't argue, the last thing you need right now is small talk with a stranger."
I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it.
He wasn't wrong.
"I wanted to give you time to acclimate," he continued, voice low. "To breathe. To look around without feeling like you have to perform." His gaze held mine. "Todd will understand. Everyone here understands."
I scooted closer, stealing his warmth.
"Thank you," I said softly.
He lifted my hand, brushing his lips across my knuckles. "Always."
We sat for a while, my attention wandering the room.
A woman in a latex dress curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, her head resting in the lap of a man who stroked her hair absently while scrolling through his phone.
On one of the beds, two men lay facing each other, foreheads touching, speaking in voices too soft to hear.
The girls in the pink corner had moved on from the squishy toys to braiding each other's hair.
It was... oddly domestic. Tender, even.
Not at all what I'd expected.
"What are you thinking?" Damien asked.
I considered the question. "That this isn't what I pictured."
"What did you picture?"
"I don't know." I chewed my lip. "Darker, maybe. More... intense."
A smile tugged at his mouth. "The intense parts are further in."
"What intense parts?"
Damien's smile deepened. "The play room."
My pulse climbed. "Play room?"
"Similar to mine, actually. You'll recognize some of the furniture." He shifted beside me, angling his body toward mine. "St. Andrew's crosses. Spanking benches. Suspension rigs. Some things I don't have—cages, medical tables, that sort of thing."
I swallowed. "And people just... use them? In front of everyone?"
"That's the point." His voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "Some people prefer an audience. Others like to watch. It's all consensual, all negotiated beforehand."
"But no sex," I clarified.
"No sex," he confirmed. "Impact play. Bondage. Sensation work. Power exchange." He ticked them off like items on a grocery list. "But genitals stay covered. Always."
I fidgeted with the hem of my dress, processing. "So like... spanking and stuff?"
"Among other things."
"Like what?"
He studied me, a question moving behind his eyes. "Do you want me to describe it? Or would you rather see for yourself?"
A jolt ran through me.
The smart answer was no. The safe answer was let's just stay here on this lovely couch and watch people braid each other's hair.
But—
"Show me," I heard myself say.
Damien rose, extending his hand. "Stay close to me. And if it's too much—"
"I'll tell you." I took his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. "I promise."
His fingers tightened around mine.
"Good girl."
The play room consumed us.
Massive didn't begin to cover it. The air was different here—warmer, tinged with leather and a faint antiseptic edge.
The space stretched out like a warehouse floor, divided into sections by half-walls and strategic lighting.
Each area was its own world—its own rules, its own rituals—separated by shadows and the soft murmur of negotiated pain.
Damien guided me along the perimeter, his hand warm and steady at the small of my back.
To our left, a section marked by clinical white lighting. Stainless steel tables. Trays laid out with instruments I couldn't identify. A woman lay strapped to a padded bench, her eyes closed, while a man in latex gloves pressed something to her chest—
Needles.
"Medical play," Damien said, voice low. "Not for everyone."
"Noted," I managed, swallowing hard.
We moved on.
The next section was darker, lit by amber spotlights that cast long shadows across the floor.
In the center, a woman hung suspended from the ceiling, her body wrapped in intricate rope work that crisscrossed her skin like lace.
She was completely nude, inverted, hair spilling toward the ground like a waterfall.
She looked... peaceful. Serene, even. Like a sculpture in a gallery.
I tilted my head, trying to imagine the sensation—what it would feel like in her position.
Damien leaned down to my ear. "Shibari. Japanese rope bondage. It's as much art as it is play."
I couldn't look away. The precision of it. The trust it required. The way her body curved and bent, held aloft by nothing but knots and tension.
"It's beautiful."
Damien smiled. "It is."
We drifted further.
The next section announced itself before I saw it—the sharp crack of leather against skin, rhythmic and deliberate. I flinched at the first sound, then forced myself to look.
A man stood strapped to a St. Andrew's cross, his bare back already blooming with red stripes. Behind him, wielding a flogger with expert precision, was a tiny elderly Asian woman. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall, silver hair pinned in a neat bun, face serene with concentration.
Each strike landed with practiced accuracy. The man groaned—not in pain, I realized, but in relief. Chasing the same relief I was beginning to crave.
I stared—not at the why, but at the man taking the hit. The surrender in his posture. The way his body softened with each strike.
Damien had mentioned once that learning to receive had made him a better Dominant. I'd filed it away without fully understanding.
Now, watching this man surrender to a woman half his size, I thought maybe I did.
"Is that what you meant?" I asked softly. "When you said you'd bottomed?"
"In fact, that's her," Damien said. "Mistress Lin. The same woman I bottomed to over a decade ago."
I watched the tiny woman deliver another precise strike, her expression calm, almost meditative. "She's still doing this?"
"She'll probably die with a flogger in her hand." A hint of affection warmed his voice. "But the one on the cross isn't a Dominant," he explained, pointing with his chin to the man. "That's a submissive. An owned one, specifically."
I blinked. "How can you tell?"
"The collar."
My fingers brushed against the delicate chain circling my own throat. The collar Damien had given me. The one I'd worn every day since he'd fastened it around my neck.
A symbol in the kink community of being owned by another.
I looked at the man on the cross again. There it was—a thick band of black leather around his neck, a small metal ring glinting at the front.
My gaze drifted to the woman suspended in rope. A delicate chain collar, similar to mine, dangling with her.
The man being paddled in the corner. Collar.
A woman kneeling at her partner's feet, head bowed. Collar.
A man walking past on a literal leash, led by a woman in stilettos. Collar.
They were everywhere. Different styles, different materials—leather, metal, lace, chain—but all carrying the same weight. The same meaning.
Owned.
"I didn't realize." The stone at the center of my collar cool against my fingertips. "I mean, I knew what you told me, but I didn't... I didn't understand."
Damien stepped closer, his chest brushing my shoulder. "And now?"
I looked up at him—at the man who'd put this collar on me, who'd claimed me in ways I was only beginning to comprehend.
"Now I do."
"Well, well, well."
The voice came from behind us—warm, teasing, feminine.
I turned just as a woman materialized at Damien's shoulder, her hand landing on his arm with easy familiarity.
Red hair tumbled past her shoulders in perfect waves.
Green eyes. Full lips curved into a playful smile.
And a body that belonged on the cover of a magazine—all curves poured into a black corset that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
"Damien Holt." She practically purred his name. "I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me."
Jealousy—ugly and possessive—coiled inside me.
"Vivian." Damien's voice was polite but measured. "It's been a while."
"Too long." Her fingers lingered on his bicep. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about us."
I stiffened. Us.
Before I could spiral further, a familiar figure appeared—the silver-haired man from earlier. Todd. He slid an arm around Vivian's waist, tugging her gently against his side.
"Viv, stop terrorizing the man." His voice was warm with amusement. "He's clearly here with someone."
Vivian's eyes finally—finally—slid to me. Her gaze dropped to my collar, then back up, recognition shifting in her expression.
"Oh." A knowing smile replaced the flirtation. "I see."
I relaxed a fraction.
"Emma," Damien said, his hand finding the small of my back, "this is Vivian and Todd. Old friends."
"Very old," Todd added with a grin. "I've known this one since he was a pup learning which end of the flogger to hold."
Vivian extended her hand, her grip surprisingly warm. "It's lovely to meet you, Emma." That playful smile returned, sharper now. "I'm one of Damien's old submissives."