Chapter 36
Phantom. Three Months Later.
The club is packed tonight.
We tend to get busy in the summer. I don’t know if people have all gone a little mad from the heat or if they’re just feeling those summertime feelings, but for some reason, we always get an onslaught of new members who, eventually, trickle out again in the winter.
It also may have something to do with the popularity of Ophelia’s Sub Club.
After getting multiple requests to keep it going, Ophelia finally caved.
Ophelia hosts it here now, at the Seekers’ Club, but as a submissives-and-switches-only event once a month.
It tends to be quite the party, and although I’m not sure what exactly goes on, I do know that I always end up cleaning popcorn kernels out of the aftercare room the next day.
I wouldn’t mind that the club is so busy, except that tonight I have to shut it down early. I glance at my watch. I can hear the crack of a whip and a shout from upstairs. They’re deep in scene. I’ll give them a few more minutes.
It’s quiet in the downstairs lounge. I’m standing guard by the door; I’ve given Princess the night off—she made a friend, and that friend is here tonight.
They don’t play, but they’ve been chatting all night by the bar.
It’s sweet, but I still keep them in my periphery, just in case.
The only other living soul is Dorian. He’s curled up in his favorite spot—the long couch that divides the space.
The book he’s lost in today is Shirley Jackson’s “The Haunting of Hill House.”
“You can go to a library if you want,” I inform him. “It’s quieter.”
He turns the page. “The dulcet sounds of screaming calm my nerves.”
“You missed a calling as a serial killer, Dorian.”
He sighs mournfully. “I know.”
Dorian’s gaze lifts from his book. He’s studying me with the same intensity he was studying the pages earlier. “What?” I prompt.
“Vanilla version of you is depressing,” he says. “It’s like an alcoholic owning a bar.”
I scowl. “I’m not…vanilla. Ophelia and I are just trying something new.”
“Yeah. And it’s weird. Almost as weird as Trinity just floating in and out whenever she wants.”
He lifts his hand. As if on cue, another scream cuts down the hall.
I search for the diplomatic answer. “It was Ophelia’s idea. She wanted to unblock Trinity. Show that there were no hard feelings.”
“Uh-huh,” Dorian says dubiously. “Yeah, no, it’s definitely good for you, having your exes free range. Builds character.”
“Should I unblock Quinn?” I parry. “Make it a party?”
Dorian shuts up. It’s strangely satisfying.
I stand, and as I do, I swipe a clementine from the bowl in the hall. I break it open, discarding the skin, and start to make my rounds. “Club is closing early,” I announce, going room to room. “Ten more minutes. Wrap it up.”
I hand out clementine slices to those who want them, check in on everyone, and ignore Carver’s pleading for can we push it to fifteen?
Before long, everyone has settled from their scenes and they filter out the door.
When the last person exits, I lock the door behind them and go downstairs to my room.
I take a quick shower, shave the stubble, and change out my shirt for a nicer button-up.
The reason I’m closing up early is because tonight is a birthday party for one of Ophelia’s cast members.
Ophelia has spent the summer performing Shakespeare in the Park—and, of course, she’s wonderful in it.
Dramatic and vibrant when she needs to be, but soft and serious, too.
I attended the first five shows before she told me to stay home, the lines have been the same for hundreds of years and they’re not going to change now.
Tonight, after the show wraps up, I’m meeting her at a bar near Central Park, where they’ll start the night. Where they end…who knows?
Either way, tonight gives me the opportunity to get to know Ophelia’s other-other family a little better. Her cast and crew, who know me as her boyfriend, Alex. Not her dominant, Phantom. We adjust titles depending on the company, but that’s the only thing that changes.
She will always be mine, and I will always be hers. No matter what our titles are.
Feeling refreshed, I go upstairs to catch a cab. But as soon as I hit the landing, my feet stall. I catch the scent of peaches.
Ophelia is here.
“Ruby?”
I glance around the lounge and library, but I don’t see her. I take the stairs to the second floor. It hasn’t been cleaned up yet—the rope is in a pile in the corner and there’s a whip and flogger abandoned on the ground.
I find Ophelia by the spanking bench. She’s still in her costume from the show; as a nymph, she wears a sheer, green slip spotted with floral patterns.
Her face shimmers with glitter and striking, dramatic makeup.
She should be at the bar, but instead, she’s curled up on the floor, cleaning the bench with one of my towels.
“That’s my job,” I tell her, approaching.
She glances up at me and smiles. God. That smile.
“I know,” she says. “Just giving you a head start.”
Post-show Ophelia is not unlike post-play Ophelia. She gets that same, dreamy look about her, like she’s blissed out of her mind and she’s riding every second of it.
“How was your show?” I ask.
She brightens. It makes my heart flip. “Amazing.”
“I’m glad.” I crouch down beside her. “Did you eat?”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder proudly. “And left no crumbs.”
I pet her hair back and clarify, “Did you have food?”
“Oh. Yes. We got a bite before the show.”
“I thought I was meeting you at the bar.”
“That was the plan,” she agrees. Then she goes back to cleaning.
She seems distracted; her focus keeps shifting.
She’s not the only one who’s distracted.
Just having Ophelia here, in the play room…
it does something to me. Veins tighten, blood travels south, and I quickly start to lose my ability to think rationally.
I start to lose my ability to think about anything at all except throwing her over that bench and taking her, deep and hard, the way I know she likes it.
Ophelia pauses her motion, then drops the towel. “But…I had to come home first.”
“Forget something?”
Even I can hear the grit in my voice. She needs to stop caressing that bench. We’re going to have to leave this room shortly, or…or…
Ophelia stands. She shifts, straddles the bench, and then looks up at me with those big, sweet eyes. “I need you to get me out of my head, Sir. Please.”
Fuck.
My heart and cock are pounding.
I cup her face. Immediately, she gives her body over to me. I feel her head get heavy in my palm as she relaxes into my touch, already slipping into sub-space. I pet my thumb over the gentle swell of her bottom lip.
“Stand, Ophelia,” I tell her. “Take off your clothes. All of them.”
She gets up and pulls the slip over her head. Then she tugs her panties off, discarding those to the side as well. She stands, a small tilt in her hip. A vision.
“Pray,” I command.
She sinks to her knees. She moves into position, hands on her thighs, head bowed.
I touch the top of her head. “Eyes closed,” I tell her, and then I leave her like that.
I step away and move towards the long, wooden closet.
There is an assortment of for-use toys in here, but mine are under lock and key. I unlock the drawer and pull it out.
My eyes drift over the buffet of options. I want to use all of them on her, but we do have to show up to this birthday party…eventually.
Go slow, I tell myself. You haven’t played in a long time. There’s no rush. Ease into this…
Fuck it.
I grab a small case and pull it out. I walk back over to where Ophelia is kneeling. I set the case down and open it up, revealing the electro-stim device and its many glass components, all nestled in velvet padding.
I position it so she can see it. “Alright,” I tell her. “Open your eyes.”
Those long eyelashes flutter open. When her gaze lands on the case, a small gasp leaves her. Ophelia loves and hates this device in equal measure. And I love tormenting her with it.
“I want to make you squirm,” I tell her.
I don’t need to wait for her consent. She gives it immediately. “Yes. Please.”
“Good. Now let’s put you where you belong.”
I take her hand and help her off her knees. I guide her up onto the bench. Ophelia lies down on her stomach, folding her arms and legs on the adjoining wings on either side of her. She knows better than to move, but I still strap down her wrists and her ankles to secure her in place.
I trickle my fingertips down her spine. “Comfortable?” I ask.
“Yes, Sir—”
She barely gets the words out before I give Ophelia her first smack on the ass. She whines sweetly.
“How about now?”
“Yes. Thank you, Sir.”
I rest one hand on the back of her neck, while my other hand comes down on her other cheek.
She expects it this time, but the smack still pulls a soft whimper from her.
Paddles, floggers—these are fine. But there is nothing quite like the feeling of her bare ass against my palm.
I love the softness of her skin. The way it grows hot to the touch.
I spank her again and again, claps reverberating through the room.
She is not going to be able to sit down tonight.
My heart is pounding. I unbutton my shirt and remove it. I need more room to move. I rub my hand over her, gently now. Both to soothe her skin, and for a more vicious reason—to end the numbing, to bring the blood flow back to the surface.
I give her a smack and it pulls the most wonderful cry from her.
God. That scream felt good. A groan loosens my throat. “Louder, Ophelia.”
Each time she screams, I feel something inside of me settle. I feel the vicarious sense of release from her shouts.
“You take it so well,” I murmur to her. I dip my fingers between her thighs. They’re spread forcibly open, straddling the bench, and she shivers when I touch that sweet, puffy pussy. I part her lips, teasing the seam of her, and I’m delighted to find her already soaking.
I remove my hand. This is the most sadistic I’ve been yet, and she groans, attempting to push her hips back to hunt for my hand, but she meets nothing but empty air.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” I crouch down and lift the electro-stim wand from the box. I flip it on, and the device crackles.