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THE DOORS OPENED to a rectangular foyer with incandescent lights rooted on the floor. Abigail didn't let the simplicity of the room belittle the trust she had given the dominatrix. She made a promise to give her last try a fighting chance. She'd give it her all and if it didn't work out, she'd settle.
The pathway of lights led to a massive floor to ceiling door. The fibrous material brought a historic feel to the ambiance. The dark wood added a mixture of elegance and danger, much as the man she dreamed of. She only hoped he stood behind the door. Black spikes decorated the perimeter of the many squares that patterned it. The pads of her fingers grazed the spikes. They were sharp. Sharp enough to draw blood. Sharp enough to hurt like hell. Sharp enough to make her horny.
What would it feel like to be fucked against them? Would the spikes pierce her buttocks? How much blood would they draw?
A throat cleared in the background. The sound was so loud in her ears, it brought her out of the sorcery the door had entrapped her in. Her attention now settled on the rest of the room.
It was decorated with golds, blacks, and red undertones that didn't overpower the gold or black. In fact, it was done so precisely, the specks of crimson looked like droplets of blood scattered across the room.
The walls surrounding the enchanting door were painted gold in an intricate pattern that made them look tufted. Twenty tables in total were covered with black tablecloths. Each held one red candle. The only light that illuminated the room.
Some tables had chairs that seated men and women, others were used to hold the arms of chatters. A soft foreign piece played in the background. Maybe Hebrew or Greek?
Men dressed in their most expensive suits while women wore their most elegant red-carpet gowns. Their braided hair was kept up nicely by a bottle of hairspray.
Abigail looked down at her black pants and emerald coat. She'd missed the memo.
She heard the same throat clear and walked over to the man behind a booth that housed an ample variety of beverages.
"Virgin cosmopolitan?" he asked without making eye contact. It was the same voice minutes ago had asked for a password.
She nodded and went to sit on the one stool that stood in front of the vicinity. It was almost as if it had been placed solely for her comfort.
The bartender prepared the cocktail in no time. His muscular arms shook the mixer before he poured it into a martini glass. He plopped three raspberries inside the glass and handed it to her.
Accepting the cocktail, she took a much-needed swallow that would sure calm her nerves. She moaned a little as the cranberry juice chilled her throat.
She wasn't a big drinker, and after the years her mother had warned her of the dangers of accepting drinks from strangers or drinking too much, Abigail kept from having any alcoholic beverage unless it was in the company of family members or close friends.
She might be into rough sex and roleplay, but she wasn't stupid enough not to follow her mother's advice. The sensible ones, of course. One drink was all it took to make someone do something incredibly stupid.
The man raised a blonde eyebrow that matched his curly hair. "Good?"
"Very," she hummed. Her lips parted by the glass.
Feeling comfortable now she was sitting and not in the middle of a room filled with strangers, she relaxed into the chair and fell, once more, entrapped by her surroundings.
A large clock hung on the wall opposite her. The tick-tock could be heard above the classical symphony. It didn't surprise her the Greek numerals were red or that the top of the hands were colored red.
It was clear the designer loved drawing blood. A smile grazed her lips as she finally released a sigh of relief. The dominatrix hadn't failed her after all.
The clock wasn't as ample as the door but possessed half of the wall. It was odd, really. The hands moved the opposite way instead of the usual clockwise motion.
"I think there's something wrong with that clock."
The bartender looked up from wiping the countertop. He pouted for a second before shaking his head. "No. It's counting down. Seems right to me."
"Counting down?"
"To when the doors open."
She didn't ask what he meant. Although it was obvious it was her first time there, she didn't want to make it known. Most things aren't known unless said aloud.
After a few minutes, she had finished half her drink and was having a pleasant conversation with the bartender whose name she found out was Ashton. It wasn't a conversation as much as it was an interview for a job she had not applied for but desired to have.
"So, how did you find out about this place?" Ashton was being nonchalant about his questions. One wouldn't know this was what he was hired for.
Abigail didn't want to snitch on the woman who'd given her the card. It felt wrong and she didn't want her to get in trouble, though she doubted she'd get in much.
Her shoulders shrugged. "I found the card at another event. Thought I should check it out."
"Hmm. Do you remember the name of the event?"
"Not really. It happened so long ago."
"How long ago?"
"You know, I really can't remember. You make a good virgin cosmo."
"Do you mind if I see your ID?"
She straightened her back. "ID? What for? I thought this club ran on anonymity."
"It does. However, we take care of our people. We must make sure everyone here is safe and has no criminal record. It will only take five minutes. In the meantime—" he took out a book from somewhere inside the booth, "—you should get acquainted with our rules."
Hesitantly, she traded her license for the small book. Ashton took it and left through a small gap on the wall.
Basic Etiquette
*1. You must be over 21 years old to enter.
2. Confidentiality is a must. What happens here, stays here.
3. No alcoholic drinks or drugs are allowed inside.
4. Don't touch without asking.
5. Do not, under any circumstances, interrupt a scene.
6. Keep it SSC (safe, sane, and consensual)
7. If you have any concerns for your safety, approach a Dungeon Keeper.
*If you are a BDSM virgin, we suggest you run. This isn't a place for you.
Failure to abide by these rules will result in expulsion.
Abigail swallowed the last drop of cranberry juice that remained at the bottom of her glass, wishing it was alcohol.
She was a BDSM virgin, but she didn't want to run. Honestly, she couldn't even if she wanted to. The Louboutins were too high. Plus, she had no idea where she'd run to. Home? That place was overrated.
Confidence was the key to life. If she pretended she belonged in this world, no one would doubt her.
Ashton came back with her license. "All clear." With a quick flick of his blue eyes, he looked at the clock before asking, "Do you have any questions?"
Oh, did she but she swallowed those questions with a gulp. She was too close to her muted desires to jeopardize them by uttering questions that made her seem ignorant.
She shook her head no just as the music died, the candles blew, and the massive door opened, demanding the shedding of beauty and the resurrection of beasts. Conversation ceased to exist as the occupants removed their clothes, exchanging riches for latex, leather, and nudity.
Men and women who but mere seconds back looked as if they owned the city, remained dignified in a choker. Majestically, they crawled on leather-covered knees as their mistress or master guided them to the entrance. Others didn't crawl, walking right past the peasants.
Before removing her clothes, Abigail looked around the shifted ambiance, wanting to remember the moment her fantasies sprouted from a lone seed to a blossomed flower.
As her emerald coat joined the thousands of dollars discarded on the Greek fret floor, she noticed not a single eye on her.
But for the man who intently watched from above, Abigail was a rose in a hayfield.