Chapter 6
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I used to love coming to church.
I was was just a kid when I first questioned God, standing at the bottom of the stairs and watching frozen in horror as my parents acted out ‘His will.’
It was only a matter of months after that my faith in Him was shaken again, listening to my mother wail and pray in the office of a doctor whose specialty I couldn’t pronounce at the time, looking at words and images on his desk that I couldn’t understand.
The church had been a special place to me before then; a place to connect with the God who’d loved me, who would keep me from harm and answer my every prayer. I’d always held faith that He would be there. He would hear me.
A lot has changed for me in the years since. I’ve never quite gotten back the love that I once held for Him; and I believe that feeling is mutual.
My uncle steps away from the lectern as the congregation begins to file out, and he finds his way to me. I greet him with a smile and a shake of his hand.
“You haven’t come in for confession in months,” he comments.
“I haven’t had anything to confess.”
“We all sin every day,” he counters. “We all have something to confess.”
“Well,” I tell him, “if I ever sin greatly enough that I feel so moved, I will see you in there to wipe that slate clean.”
Keeping his voice low, he steps closer to me, still holding tightly to my hand. “You’ve already seen how God punishes the wicked, Brody. Would you face His wrath again for your mockery?”
I blink back my surprise and do my best to hide the rage that boils through every corner of my mind, but I pull my hand from his and step away – which I’m almost certain that I do for his safety.
“I need you to think carefully about what you just said to me, Pat,” I hiss.
I look to the families filing out of the church, some of them with older kids in their teens like Clare, others with infants as young as a couple of weeks old, and I wonder if he would have the audacity to say to them what he just said to me.
That they didn’t pray hard enough, that they weren’t good enough Catholics. That their children – that the two-week-old baby in their arms – had sinned so horribly that he deserves…
I always believed that my father kept his distance in my childhood because he couldn’t handle what was happening, but now I can’t help but wonder if it was because he felt then the same way that his brother does.
That I was wicked.
That I deserved for God to punish me.
“I was a child ,” I tell him.
“And now you’re an adult,” he muses. “An adult who takes the sanctity of marriage in his hands and twists it, manipulating it to his benefit until it breaks. Was it not enough to do that with your own vows?”
“My first marriage was a crock,” I argue. “No one should have ever let that happen. And April…you will never be able to understand how complicated that was.”
“It didn’t need to be complicated,” he shrugs. “You could have come to me and I could have helped you to repair what had been broken.”
I pull in a deep breath to center myself, reminding myself that the man in front of me is stuck in his ways, and that he leaves very little wiggle room to open his mind or to see things from any other perspective but his own. What he believes is law, however extreme that belief may be, and that is the end of it.
He and my father have that in common, as well.
“I’m going to excuse myself before I hit you,” I tell him. “Great service today.”
As shock etches itself into each and every one of his wrinkling features, my uncle draws in a gasp. “What will your father think when I tell him that you’ve threatened me in a house of God?”
“You know what, Pat,” I shrug. Scrubbing a hand down my jaw brings a rage-fueled smile to my face. “I really can’t bring myself to give a shit what my father thinks anymore. Have whatever kind of day God gives you.”
With a sharp pivot, I angle toward the door and take heavy steps through the exit, maneuvering past people until I reach the open space of the church’s parking lot. Nearly the entire congregation stands around, chatting with one another. Making plans for after-service lunch, discussing the lessons in today’s sermon, planning Bible study for next week.
I can’t help but wonder how many of them are as fucking hypocritical as their priest.
“Brody, sweetheart,” my mother calls out to me, hurrying over to drop her hand onto the back of my shoulder. “We’re at Edie’s, today.”
“I’ll pass on that,” I turn to tell her with a shake of my head. “I have other things I need to do.”
“Are you upset about something?”
“No,” I lie, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “I’m helping a friend with a party tonight.”
“You’re always so busy,” she sighs. “I hope that you’re taking care of what you need to take care of.”
My soul, she means.
My mother’s biggest fear is her children losing our souls and becoming s ervants to the Devil . Her views, like my father’s and my uncle’s, are extremist and often enough to make me worry for her. That woman would peel her own skin off with a smile if she thought that it would please God.
“I like being busy,” I tell her. “You know what they say about idle hands.”
Idle hands are the Devil’s playground.
So is The Haven.
Despite the fact that the doors don’t open for another two hours, The Haven is already full of life when I step inside.
Employees flit around dressed in either formalwear or fetish gear; for some of them, a combination of the two. Livelier-than-normal music plays through the speakers, just a touch louder than its usual volume, and where the main hall is usually bathed in a soft purple light, tonight, it’s warm and red.
Isla scurries through the room with a large cardboard box in her arms – likely a refill on condoms, gloves and sponges for each of the rooms – dressed in a tight latex getup that crosses over her breasts in straps just thick enough to cover her nipples. It ends in a short skirt which lets the curve of her ass poke out at the bottom, and a pair of bright red fishnets lead down to the six-inch tall red-bottom heels on her feet.
Crossing the strap of my messenger bag over my body with a chuckle, I sidle up next to her. “Can I take that for you so you don’t break your ankles?”
“You’re kidding, but I really am putting you to work,” she answers. As she turns to hand me the box, she lets out a gasp. “Oh, sweet Jesus, he brought the bag.”
“Is the red room available?”
“Yes!” She squeals. “We got you new toys.”
I follow her lead down one of the halls toward my favorite room in the building, and the only one that I have a personal copy of the key to. I’m not sure that she even rents it out to anyone else, anymore.
I haven’t been in this room in nearly four years, and it’s almost the same as I remember it, save a few upgrades.
The walls have gotten a fresh coat of paint, a deeper blood red than the cherry shade that it was prior, and the flooring has been replaced with a softer material; a request that I put in the last time I was in this room.
The plush king-sized bed sits in its usual place against the far wall, and the St. Andrew’s cross in its place next to it. The wall next to the cross is lined with an almost entirely new lineup of whips, floggers, rattan canes waiting to be soaked, various crops and batons – everything that I could dream of - and my jaw flexes looking at them all.
At the center of the room sits my real treat: a brand-new spanking bench, crafted from beautiful dark wood, each level upholstered in soft, quilted leather cushioning.
Enough D-rings line both the front and back of the frame that its user could be as creative as they wished with restraints. I let out a low whistle as I drop my bag and run my hand along the cool leather.
“You’ve outdone yourself with this one,” I tell my friend with a smile.
“Same people who made the crosses,” she says, running her own hands over the leather of the bench. “You should be very happy with it, darling.”
“Back in the day, April would have—”
“I know,” she smiles. “The fridge is freshly-stocked with water bottles and cold compress kits, and unless someone’s snuck in here in the last ten minutes, there should be hard candies and crackers in the cabinet.”
“Perfect. Let me just—” I reach into the cardboard box now sitting on the floor to pull out a few condoms and tuck them into my breast pocket, to which my friend quirks a brow. “Disease exists,” I remind her.
After throwing my bag onto the mattress, I pick up the box and incline my head for Isla to show me where we’re needed next.
We slip in and out of each of the rooms for the next hour and a half, making sure they have plenty of supplies for the rest of the evening before we move to the bar so Isla can get herself a quick dose of liquid courage.
Isla is a watcher in every way; she doesn’t like to be the center of attention and she loathes public speaking. She’d much rather tuck herself into a corner or a comfortable chaise and watch everyone else around her. Listen in on conversations. Spy on more than just their conversations. Every time she throws one of these events, she’s nervous, and it never seems to get any better for her.
“I think the owner is allowed to break the two-drink max,” I tease as I slide a glass of wine toward her.
Conversation builds as people begin to file in for the evening; newcomers, guests, and current members alike, and Isla groans into her glass before draining it in one large gulp.
“Screw yourself, Montgomery,” she grumbles at me with a glare.
I order a water for myself as she moves to take her place at the center of the room, surrounded by at least a hundred pairs of eyes.
It’s a good crowd tonight; everyone is excited to be here and tuned in to everything Isla says as she welcomes them and walks them through the plans and expectations of the evening. When she opens the floor for questions, she seems to come out of her shell just enough to look like she’s not suffocating.
A young woman, maybe twenty years old or so, raises her hand before clearing her throat. “Do any of the employees or…” her eyes drift around the room for a moment, and I almost feel bad for her. She seems petrified. “Do you participate at all?”
“Oh, not me, love, I just like to watch,” Isla tells her, throwing her a suggestive wink. “Steven over there is the pet play guy – cats, dogs, rabbits, whatever tickles your pickle. Brody is the pain guy. You wanna get the shit beaten out of you and come while it’s happening, he’s your man.”
I chuckle into my glass with a shake of my head at her sales pitch. The young woman turns in my direction, and as her eyes land on mine, I offer her a smile before pulling a drink of my water and turning back to the bar.
I’m sure she’s very nice, but she’s a little too shy and about ten years too young for my taste.
As Isla’s impromptu round of question-and-answer comes to an end, she makes her way back toward me and takes her place on a stool, swiveling toward the bar to order another glass of wine.
“Owner gets to break the max,” she tells me.
“Your secrets are my own, dear,” I laugh as I slide my emptied glass across the bar top.
I watch as my friend tosses back her wine, swallowing this glass in a similar fashion to her last, and I shake my head in amusement.
“To scene with someone, you have to talk to them, you know,” she taunts me. “I have watched you cane the absolute snot out of someone with your dick in your hand, so I’m not sure why you’re tucked over here by yourself, being a shy little baby lamb.” She makes sure to emphasize the ‘ shy little baby lamb ’ bit with a heavy dosing of baby talk and a pinch to my cheek.
“It’s been half an hour,” I say with a quirk of my brow. “If you’d like to watch someone that badly, there are voyeur rooms and the entire public room for you to enjoy.”
“You’re being too picky about your proverbial horse,” she shrugs. “At a certain point, a saddle is a saddle, right?”
A brow quirks in her direction. “Have you ever seen a horse wearing an ill-fitted saddle?” I challenge.
With a smirk, I pat her on the back and push myself from my stool, moving into the larger-than-normal crowd, because she’s right; if I want to play tonight, I have to seek out someone to scene with.
There are plenty of solos here tonight; some of whom are more confident than others, who seem to shrink in on themselves with a look in their eyes like that of deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Deciding against being the semi truck barreling straight for one of them, I pivot to head down the hall which leads to the double doors of the public room.
Someone grazes my arm as she bowls past me, blonde hair flowing behind her, and the smell of…
Grapefruit.
I bought that perfume for her on our first wedding anniversary. She called it her ‘special occasion smell.’ Every time she put it on, she stood a few inches taller. Spoke a little more firmly. I can’t count how many ‘special occasions’ I’d dreamed up just so she could have an excuse to wear it.
“April?”
The head of thick, blonde hair in front of me turns and I’m met with piercing blue eyes and a radiant smile that leaves my chest aching.
“Oh my gosh, hi!” She squeals. Her arms fly around me as she pulls me into a hug, just before stepping back with her hands on my biceps. My eyes flick to the small diamond ring adorning her left hand, and I don’t miss her eyes looking at mine for a ring of my own. “How are you? Are you good? You look fantastic!”
“I’m doing well,” I tell her with a smile. “How are you? How are your boys?”
I can’t help my eyes roaming the length of her body. The body that used to belong to me. That used to hum and purr and writhe for me.
The body that has now carried two children that she’d dreamed of, whom I couldn’t give to her.
I listen as she tells me about her children, tactfully avoiding the subject of the husband that she must be rushing off to meet in their rented room.
I ignore the conjured image of her tearful face in my office while we said goodbye to each other; and I try to ignore the guilt that I haven’t kept my promises to her.
I’m not sure if the glow on her cheeks is from her being a new mother, or if it’s simply because she’s happy with her life. A part of me hopes that it’s both, though I can’t help the bitter taste in my mouth at the idea of the latter.
A hand brushes down the length of my arm, pulling me out of our past and my visions of her present.
“He’s waiting, so I have to go, but it was really great to see you,” she tells me.
“It was good to see you, too, Apes.” I offer her a smile, as warm as I can make it, as I fight back the words that she used to love hearing from me. “I’m glad to see you happy.”
With a squeeze of my hand and one of those warm-as-the-summer-sun smiles, she’s off, headed down the hallway and away from me once again.
It’s been years. It shouldn’t bother me, and in fact, it doesn’t most of the time; but seeing her here on the one night that I finally decided I was ready to dip my toe into finding another sub? That doesn’t seem entirely like coincidence.
Graham might even call it an act of God – if he thought that God existed in a place like this. If he knew that places like this existed at all.
Shaken, I pull my glasses from their perch on my face and wipe their lenses against my shirt before putting them back on and continuing my path toward the public room with a steadying breath. The large double doors open, letting the sound of everyone inside spill out.
Moaning, crying, the sounds of toys and equipment in use.
I love this room. I don’t use it often, and I’d never make use of it on a newcomers’ night, but some of my favorite scenes have taken place in this room.
The light is considerably more dim in here, lit by faux-candle chandeliers which bathe everyone in a low, warm light that contrasts to much of the activity taking place. Unlike the main room, there is no music playing in here; most nights, you wouldn’t be able to hear it even if it were.
My eyes land on the young woman that I saw earlier, asking Isla about others joining her. She’s still too damn young and probably too green, but I find myself approaching her, anyway.
She’s standing with her back against the wall, twirling a section of her mousy brown hair around her index finger, and her eyes seem to be glued to a couple settling into a scene with a queening chair. It isn’t necessarily my thing, but I can understand how it would appeal to some people.
“Is this your first time here?” I ask her, leaning against the wall next to her as I cross my arms over my chest.
A blush creeps across her cheeks as she turns to make unexpected eye contact with me. “It’s that obvious?” I shrug to one side, offering her a wink and a smile. “It’s not that I’m a prude or anything,” she says, and I can’t help but to doubt that, “I’ve just never been to a club for this stuff.”
“This is probably the best one you’ll find in the city, at least,” I tell her. “Isla runs a tight ship here.”
“The woman from before?” I nod. “And you’re Brody, right? ‘ The pain guy .’”
“Yes,” I chuckle, “I’m the pain guy.”
Her eyes move back to that same couple, watching as the woman rolls her head over her neck in response to the contact of her partner’s tongue. The twirling of her hair picks up speed, just a touch, before she looks back to me.
“For a place made for this, this is awkward,” she chuckles, “but do you think you’d…”
“Would you like to visit my room?” I ask her.
When she nods with an all-too-innocent smile, I drop my hand between her shoulder blades and guide her out of the public room.
Our conversation about consent on the way to the red room isn’t nearly as detailed as I’d normally like it to be; and maybe that’s because there’s a part of me hoping that she’ll take one look at my bag and run out scared.
I like that idea more than the alternative, at least.
She wastes no time kicking off her skinny stiletto heels as we enter the room, and I pull off my tie, tossing it onto the mattress next to my bag.
“You’re familiar with the traffic light system?” I ask as I slip out of my suit jacket.
“Yes, Sir, I am,” she nods as she reaches behind her for the zipper of her dress.
The corner of my mouth ticks up into a half-smile as I approach to help unzip her.
Maybe this won’t be such a disaster, after all .
“Where do you want me?” She asks, turning her head over her shoulder.
“You should already know the answer to that,” I scold her.
“Right,” she says. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
As she slips from her dress, leaving her soft, naked body on display, she drops to her knees. Her palms rest on her thighs, and she looks up at me through thick lashes.
“Eyes on the ground,” I order her, and she immediately complies. As I unbutton the cuffs of my sleeves, I tell her, “I’m going to invite my friend into the room.”
I crouch in front of her, tilting my head to force myself into her field of vision as she actively avoids making eye contact with me. My hand snaps firmly around her throat, forcing her head to lift toward mine, and she trains her eyes onto the ground behind me. “Are you going to put on a good show for her?”
“Yes, Sir,” she nods.
“Good.”
Releasing her throat as I bring myself to a standing position, I pull my phone from my pocket to send Isla a quick text message.
The chat bubble on her end pops up and disappears, repeating a few times until finally the door to the room opens, and I let out a chuckle at the excitement on my friend’s face.
“Sit down, Isla,” I tell her, tossing my phone into my open bag. “Our new friend is about to show us how well she can suck a cock.” Pulling open my belt, I settle into the large leather club chair waiting for me. “Go on,” I tell the woman still kneeling on the floor, beckoning her toward me with my fingers. “Crawl.”
It strikes me that I never asked her name, but I suppose at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter all that much. I know the important things; names are fleeting, and I won’t see her again after this. This is just…the dipping of a toe into a pool that’s been left cold for too long.
The re-ignition of a flame that was doused years ago.
Without needing further instruction, my scene partner moves carefully toward me, keeping her eyes on the ground until she perches herself between my thighs.
When her fingers work to slip one of the buttons on my shirt from its hole, I grab her jaw firmly in warning, forcing her to look up at me. “Did I give you permission to do that?” I demand. “No, I didn’t. You only touch what you’re told to touch.”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” she says meekly.
I don’t know why I fight the urge to punish her, even as the muscle rolls against my jaw at the thought of it. Doling out pain and punishment is my favorite thing to do with a partner; it’s my driving force in a scene.
The woman works to unbutton my slacks and unzip the fly, carefully reaching into my boxers to pull out my cock as if it’s a dog threatening to bite her. I rest my arms on the sides of the chair, leaning my head back as she strokes her hand over the length of my hardening shaft, letting myself relax as it swells in her grip.
I’m not unaware of Isla’s movements from her perch on the mattress. We’ve done this little show-and-tell enough times with each other over the years. Her dress hikes up her thighs as her legs spread, putting her bare pussy on display, and her fingers reach to toy with her clit.
We’ve never had sex with each other, and we have no interest in having sex with each other. It’s a simple trade-off between friends: I occasionally like to be watched, and Isla gets off on watching. It’s a mutually beneficial interaction that we can provide to each other in a safe space.
No strings, no emotion, no desire between the two of us.
I love this place.
I groan as hot, wet lips surround the head of my cock, the tip of her tongue teasing at my slit. After painfully long moments, she pulls me into her mouth, offering suction as she moves her head to give me friction.
“I want it in your throat,” I rasp, gripping onto the crown of her head. “I’d better hear you fucking gag on it.”
A moan slips out of her as I push her head down, forcing my cock back and deep into her throat. I keep control of her head, moving it roughly in the rhythm that I need as my head falls backward once more with a satisfied moan.
As her hands move to grip desperately onto my hips, the room around me fades away.
I’m no longer in The Haven. I’m at home in my office with my wife bent over my desk, and my cane is raised high in the air, ready to land the first blow to punish her for teasing me all day over text; photo after photo, message after message.
She’d known that I was in court, that I couldn’t be distracted, but she kept sending them anyway. She wanted me to punish her for her misbehavior.
I hear the impact, and then I hear the scream.
‘Please! Stop!’
That’s when the tears come. Loud, terrified, overwhelming tears that could almost bring me to my knees.
And then I’m on the floor with her, stroking her hair while I sway side to side with her in my arms; and the weight of something pivotal happening between us threatens to smother me.
“Get off,” I tell the woman in front of me, pushing her away as my cock goes soft.
She sits on her haunches, wiping her lips in confusion as I stuff myself back into my pants and zip them up. Standing from the chair, I weave around her and aim myself for the room’s exit.
“Is this part of the…?” She asks, tilting her head to one side.
“No, it isn’t,” Isla answers. She straightens her dress and fumbles for my bag before launching herself after me. “I’m so sorry, love,” she tells her, “I’ll be right back.”
I’m halfway down the main hall, taking purposefully long strides, before she finally catches up to me and her hand grips my arm tightly.
“No safe word, no aftercare?” She squeezes my arm. “ Brody. ”
“Get me the woman’s name and I’ll have an apology sent to her,” I tell her, not stopping my movements.
“I mean, yes,” she says, “but also not my biggest concern right now.” Her high heels click against the asphalt as she trails after me out of the building and into the parking lot, and I’m hit with a heavy impact as my own bag is swung hard at my back. “Would you stop? God, I’d ask you where the hell your head is right now, but I don’t have to, do I?”
“I’m going home, Isla,” I tell her, turning only to take the bag from her as I approach my car.
“Yeah, to beat yourself up over something you had no control over,” she challenges.
“It was my job to see it,” I argue as I climb into the car. “I’m sorry. Tell her I’m sorry.”
“The woman you just left alone on the floor?” She asks, crossing her arms over her middle with an accusing quirk of her brow. “Or April?”
“You know who I mean.”
Slamming the door shut, I peel out of the parking lot, headed for home – to do exactly what my friend just accused me of.