Chapter 6
Phantom. Now.
She’ll be back.
This is a hiccup. A snag. Every couple fights. Even if we’re not a couple by traditional standards…we’ve been play partners for nearly three years.
There are going to be bumps in the road.
Ophelia might despise me right now, but she’ll always come back to the club. This is her home. Her family. And when she does, she’ll see me and she’ll realize…
I was right.
Brody had to go. He was a selfish, cheating bastard.
She’s better off here. With her family.
With me.
The Seekers’ Club opens promptly at seven pm.
It used to be word of mouth—you’d need to know a specific phrase in order to enter.
But we’ve updated to the twenty-first century.
Now, all you need is to download the Seekers Club app and, if you’re approved, you’ll be provided with a four-digit number code that you can punch into the lock at front. The lock slides open and you’re in.
The Seekers Club is your place to engage in your most unusual desires, as long as it’s safe, of sound mind, and consensual.
I run the club out of my house. On my own.
We don’t collect money. I’m not trying to make a profit off of this.
It’s simply a safe space for degenerates like myself.
This makes my weekly event accessible to those interested.
It also gives me leeway to do, essentially, whatever I want, which is how I like it.
It’s my house. I can use my discretion with personalities, and I do.
Generally, as long as you respect boundaries and speak kindly to the people in the club, you’re in.
But I have no problem kicking people to the curb for not playing by the rules or having bad attitudes.
Hell, on a particularly bad day, I kicked someone out because I didn’t like his mustache.
Which…yeah. In retrospect, probably went too far on that one.
Hope he’s okay.
The point is, this place has grown from a space for me to indulge in my own personal kinks into a three-floored haven with spanking benches, suspension rigging, customized rooms and seemingly-private sex rooms for the voyeuristic at heart.
More than that…it’s become a family. The people who come weekly, I know them by name.
Scene name, anyway. We use pseudonyms to keep reality out of the building.
But I know who they are, I know what they like, and I know their birthdays, their accomplishments, and their worst moments, because we celebrate and mourn together. As a family.
So even if Ophelia hates me right now, there’s no doubt in my mind that, when the doors open, she’ll still come strolling in, the center of attention, determined to show me what an incredible mistake I made in wronging her.
Seven comes. The doors unlock. The music is going. People filter in and Princess checks names at the door.
I watch. And wait. And…Ophelia doesn’t show. Not only that, this is becoming a real—
“Fucking sausage fest,” Carver complains.
Carver is a regular; he’s a top and a voyeur.
He’s in his thirties, fit, and wears an assortment of name-brand attire, which is all to say: he never has trouble finding a partner for the night.
Tonight, however, he’s pacing the lounge like a caged lion.
He’s got a fidget spinner between his fingers, and he’s whacking it back and forth with such force, I think it might take flight if he releases it.
“Excuse me.” Jekyll, one of the femdoms, lifts a palm. “What do I look like?”
“Not you,” Carver says. “The submissives. It’s like bottom-rapture all the sudden.”
I scan the crowd and take stock of the crew. Carver. Jekyll. The “Twins.” Hook and Lady Nine…
Carver is right. Where are all the submissives?
“They’re probably at Sub Club,” Dorian says. The dark-eyed, glasses-clad switch has stretched himself out on one of the long, leather couches. He has a book in his lap, and his eyes don’t lift from the pages as he speaks.
“Sub Club?” I ask, curious despite myself.
“Sub Club.” Dorian turns another page. “Ophelia is having a submissives-only party at her place tonight.”
Ah. Of course she is.
I’ve hosted my club every Friday night for years. It’s no accident that Ophelia suddenly started a competing party for submissives at the exact same time.
She’s trying to get under my skin.
Unfortunately, it’s working.
“So the subs are, what. Rioting?” Carver complains.
“Take it down a notch,” Jekyll says.
He does not. “This is bullshit!”
Carver is frustrated. Although he’s being loud about it, I can’t blame him.
Like Carver—and many of the others here—this is my one time a week that I carve out for myself. It’s the one chance I give myself to blow off steam. Release all the stress and tension that comes with everyday life.
This is my escape. And tonight, all the doms have been dom-blocked.
Because of me.
“What are we supposed to do all night?” Carver says. “Fucking Parcheesi?”
“I’d be down,” one of the twins says.
Carver stops pacing. He points his fidget spinning hand at Dorian.
“Alright, Dorian. You’re the only switch here.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the play room upstairs. “Let’s go.”
Dorian finally lifts his gaze from his book, his eyebrows rising with it.
“Dove and I don’t play with other people.
” I watch the wheels turn in his head. I can see the moment he decides to take a bad situation and make it substantially worse.
“Besides.” He closes his book. “Even if we did, you couldn’t handle me. ”
Carver lifts a finger. “Come over here and say that to my whip, pretty-boy.”
The edge of Dorian’s mouth quirks upwards in a smirk.
A bunch of pent-up dominants stuck in a house together. What could go wrong?
This is going downhill. Fast.
I glance at Princess. She’s apart from the group, lingering by the door to check people in.
She has her legs curled up, an anime comic resting on her thighs.
Even though she is, technically, a submissive, even Carver knows better than to come for her.
Everyone respects Princess. Ignoring the outbursts of brutish doms, she keeps to herself and quietly turns the pages.
“Princess.” Her blue eyes lift when I call her name. “Do you want to go to Ophelia’s party?”
She shrugs. I’ve known her well enough to understand the translation. It means, yes, but I’ll do whatever you want.
“Go,” I tell her. “I’ll watch the door.”
Her eyes light up. She flips the comic closed and scampers upstairs to her room to grab her coat.
“Club’s closed,” I announce to the rest of the crew. “Stay if you want, but no one is playing tonight. Come back next week.”
“You serious?” Carver says. “I want a refund.”
“You didn’t pay.”
“Yeah, but have you seen the subway fare?”
Carver wears name brand items, always looks fresh, but I know the telltale signs of someone who is struggling and doesn’t want anyone to know. Tags tucked under his clothes. Holes in his socks. I pull out my wallet, relieve it of the cash inside, and hold it up to him. “Take a cab. Get home safe.”
He takes the money, but points it at me. “This is for emotional damage.”
The dominants grumble as they leave, some making plans with each other to meet up at bars in the neighborhood instead. Carver complains loudly on his way out. It’s fine. I deserve it.
I deserve all of their ire.
Hers, most of all.