It's exciting when you find parts of yourself in someone else ~Annaka Silvia
A sincere and deep thanks to NYCDOM for both his inspiration, and help with this story.
*****
My head pounds as if the bass has been beating me with a small mallet, and relief is slow-coming even as I close the heavy doors and enter the lounge, leaving the pulsing lights of the dance floor. The music in here is soft, chant-like, but primal, held together by a deep pulling drum-line that, instead of pounding at my head, reverberates in my chest. The sort of slow steady rhythm that makes one feel as if they are being drawn toward something.
My eyes dart around the room looking for her. Susan brought me here, "Let's try something new," she had said while telling me about a club she had found. She thought it would be "hilarious" to go to. "It's for weirdos who are into spanking and chains," she had giggled over coffee. "It's called BDSM," I had corrected her, looking at the article and taking a sip of my latte. I stopped there, not wanting to her to know I had heard of it too, and not from some magazine touting it as one of the "100 strangest places in the city," but after hours of pouring over websites cluttered with articles bearing titles like "finding out if the lifestyle is right for you".
I giggled, "Well, we've tried just about every other club this city had to offer," trying not to seem too excited by the prospect. Two days later we followed the directions to an unmarked staircase in a well-lit alleyway. Now she has disappeared in a club that seems to have endless rooms.
This particular room smells of disinfectant, but the furniture breaths sex. Benches, tables, and sofas covered in soft leather, some with straps, others with cuffs dangling from them. Racks on the walls covered in paddles, whips, and canes.
Resigning myself to sitting and waiting for her, I pour a drink from the bar. A vodka and cranberry from a long wooden table covered in bottles. Apparently selling alcohol isn't allowed in a place like this, but bringing and pouring your own is okay. That explains the appalling cover charge we paid at the door. "We've spent more than this on dinner and a movie," Susan had argued as we each handed the bouncer fifty dollars. The charge for men was twice that, and the policy seemed to be paying off, judging by the gender balance on the dance floor.
In the corner a series of dark brown leather-clad sofas face one another, and I move toward them. I settle on the only one with less than two occupants, a few feet from a man whose back is turned to me whilst he speaks with another man opposite him.
My phone buzzes.
*Sorry Kate. Met friends. At bar on the corner, Mc-something's. Come meet us.* The message reads.
I close the phone and slip it back into the left side of my bra. Crossing my right leg over my left I lean forward, my drink in my left hand, and fumble with the strap of my right shoe, pulling it open and refastening it at a looser setting. When I lean back again I see the man to my right tracing his eyes up my leg, past the hem of my tight black dress, and quickly up to meet my eyes, holding there, unblinking.
The awkwardness of having a stranger look into my eyes this way is unspeakable. I look down to my drink, taking a long slow sip. When I glance back his eyes are sill locked on mine.
"May I help you?" a tinge of irritation in my voice.
"That's yet to be determined," he answers.
"Excuse me?" My tone and my stare are cold. For the first time I notice the actual man. He's wearing worn jeans and a grey t-shirt tucked only in the front below a matte black belt. His hair is a dark brown peppered with grey, his eyes only visible as deep black pools in the dim lighting. He's quite handsome, the t-shirt seems to fit in all the right places. While I would normally say he's underdressed for a nightclub somehow it suits him.
His eyes blink, his scowl softens into a soft smile, making him even more handsome. I feel a small rush as he grins at me, "Tell me why you're here tonight."
My eyes settle on the drink in my hand, I tug at the hem of my dress which has made it's way up my leg since adjusting my shoe, "I was curious..".
He interrupts "Look at me when you speak."
The command is brazen. I feel myself fight against conceding, but decide to meet his eyes instead. "Yes Sir!" I reply, seething with sarcasm. The softness in his eyes fades as he returns my gaze. Silence stretching between us like a rope drawing me toward him, the quiet tugging at me, demanding deference. "Yes Sir," I repeat this time in a flat tone, the words catching as they come up from my throat.
He leans is in, placing his lips so they barely graze my earlobe, "How did that feel?"
I swallow hard, like someone who has surfaced from beneath the water my steady inhalations turn to long pulls of air. Goosebumps rise along my arms. As shiver runs through me when his warm breath hits me. I hesitate.
"Good," I admit.
He chuckles. My eyes meet his again as he sits back, picking his rocks glass up from the side-table. "Continue."
Taking a deep breath I try to explain my curiosity. I tell him about my Ex, who first brought his hand to my throat while we made love, about the way I swooned when he called me a slut, how I find myself constantly drawn to stories and videos of women being objectified. I ramble, telling him the draw that a dominant/submissive relationship has for me. He only stares back at me, the lack of reply drawing more and more out of me as I attempt to fill the silence.
"So what is it you want? What did you come here hoping to find?" he asks finally.
I notice beads of sweat forming on my low back despite the chill in the room, and I struggle to form an answer, my eyes searching the room, hoping to pull it from the air around me.
"I want to find out if I can submit. If I have it in me. If I will enjoy it. If I can..." I pause for a moment "handle the punishments. The spankings." I clarify, my eyes finding my knees again.
Tugging my chin, bringing my eyes back to his, "Spanking is not a punishment dear. It's a show of surrender, an act of ownership, the fulfillment of a need. A need you haven't admitted you have yet."
My teeth bite into my bottom lip, and I cross my legs together more tightly as I feel the rush of blood between them. "I do want it, how does he know that?" I ask myself silently.
"Would you like me to show you?" He offers me his hand, standing over me, waiting for me to take it, eyes looking right through me.
Palms sweaty, cheeks flushed, knees shaky as I uncross them, curiosity takes hold and I place my hand in his, rising to my feet.
Moving me beside him, his left hand wrapped around mine, his right on the small of my back, he leads me down a well lit hallway and opens a frosted glass door. The room is bare save for a leather-clad bench and a wooden cabinet hung on the wall.
