“I’m on it,” Eric said, his lips twitching as though suppressing a grin, as he walked away.
Chapter 7
Rejected repeatedly, with her ego badly trampled, Esme left the dungeon for the last time and rather than leaving the club like usual, went directly to the bar. By her calculations the club owed her a back log of drinks, at least two per night for the past twelve weeks. She was going to drink her fill and make up for her teetotaling ways then Uber home.
After her meeting with Master Eric, she’d done as ordered and gone home to think. The next night she was back, searching in earnest for a willing Dom. Over the next three days, she tried, truly she did, approaching dominants she found acceptable, who wouldn’t push or question, or act, in essence, like Master Eric. Except they either remembered her rebuffing their earlier offers and returned it, or were involved with a sub, or several—Decadence LA had an inordinately high percentage of ménage and polyamorous members—or they were class A jerks, like Carlos.
With only two days remaining before she got booted out for good, she’d approached Master Eric when she arrived, and out of desperation, asked for his recommendations. The list contained six names, but it came with a caveat.
“These men won’t be easy to please, Esme. You’ve earned a reputation and it will take a lot of ass kissing and unwavering obedience to overcome it.”
“What kind of reputation?”
“Of being cold and unapproachable.”
She frowned, it wasn’t unearned and pretty much how she wanted it, but now, she’d have to overcome it.
For the next four hours, she sought out the men on his list. Two weren’t in attendance, two others she found, but quickly took out of contention on two critical points, namely an evil looking short-tailed whip called a Dragon’s Tongue and a flogger made of black leather with knots on the ends of each of the nine tails appropriately called a Black Cat.
According to the sub who pointed the two Doms out to her, they teetered on the edge of sadism, but could dial it back for a sub who wasn’t a full-fledged masochist. As Esme watched them wield their weapons of choice during the impact play demonstration they were holding, she flinched at every moan from their respective subs and winced as each welt appeared on their flesh. Both the volunteers, a man and a woman, were weak kneed and dreamy eyed from pleasure when the Doms helped them down from the side by side picture frames. Too intense for her, she nixed them before even talking to them.
The next one had the appearance of a snake oil salesman with a tongue equally as slick, she knew because he was in the process of negotiating a scene with a wide-eyed submissive who must have been new to the scene or would have known better.
Master Tristan, the sixth and final Dom on her list, was a tall, lean, handsome as sin lady-killer with twinkling blue eyes, and shoulder length sandy blond hair, who looked a lot like Brad Pitt in his younger days. She’d had to wait until he finished his DM shift in the main playroom to approach. He was one of the club Masters, a title given to the two dozen well-respected dominants, both male and female, who took on added responsibilities in the club and were leaders in the Decadence community. Most sat on either the membership committee or advisory council, some mentored new Doms or taught classes, and most took their turn as dungeon monitors, but all of them were well-respected by the membership and had years of experience. Esme was both excited and petrified over the prospect that Master Tristan might actually say yes, but like the others, he politely declined.
“Sorry, princess,” he told her in a low, growly voice. “You’re lovely and the idea of playing with you is tempting, but I prefer a sub whose interest in me is more than a pathway to membership.”
“About time you graced my bar, little girl.”
Deep and gruff the bartender’s booming voice made Esme jump so violently, she almost fell off her stool. After she righted herself, she stared up at the big, burly, barrel-chested man shocked she hadn’t heard him approach.
“What gives?” he asked as he leaned his elbows on the bar and gave her a thorough inspection. “You a teetotaler or something?”
“No, sir. I’ll have a vodka gimlet, no ice. And since I’m obviously not playing tonight, make it a double.”
“You got a way home?” he asked sharply.
“I’ll Uber.”
“Don’t trust ‘em. Heard all sorts of wild tales.”
“That’s how I got here, sir.”
“Hmph.” He turned and reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a bottle of Grey Goose.
“The cheap stuff is fine,” she told him. “I’m not picky.”
He jerked and made an affronted face like she’d spit on him. “Now I know you haven’t been to my bar. Look around you, subbie. Decadence doesn’t cut corners, and I don’t do cheap drinks.”
“I’m sure she meant nothing by it, Master Samson,” a woman taking the stool beside her told the bartender.
He grunted again and slid her drink in front of her then moved away to serve a few other new arrivals.
“Don’t mind him. He’s been the bar manager since the place opened and prides himself on stocking only the best. Most of his customers expect it, too.”
The pretty blonde offered her hand, her lively blue eyes gleaming with interest. “I’m Val.”
“Master Eric’s Val?”
“That would be me,” she said with a smile. “My reputation precedes me, all good I hope.”
“Your husband gave me your business card.”
Her smooth brows slammed together in a frown. “I know. He told me you might call.”
She hadn’t, and both of them knew it.
Esme looked away, and sucked back half her drink, then shuddered. Maybe a double wasn’t a good idea.
“Despite his high-handed ways, Eric means well, Esmerelda. He takes an interest in everyone here at the club, but he seemed especially concerned about you. Losing a spouse can be devastating; I know that first hand. That’s all he shared, however. Anymore is for you to say.”
“It’s Esme.”
“Pardon?”
“My name. Master Eric insists on using my full name. I’m not sure why.”
“He does that to me too. No one except my mother ever called me Valerie, before him. He said it’s beautiful and rolls off his tongue better.”
She blinked, surprised the bossy Master Dom had a romantic bone in his body. “Valerie is a beautiful name. My mother insisted on using the unabbreviated form with me, too. I thought Esmerelda sounded like an evil stepsister, or a witch, so I shortened it, which in the third grade made it easier to spell, too.”
Val smiled. “I think it’s a lovely name, and unique. You said your mother insisted, past tense.”
“She’s passed, as is my father.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and sounded like she meant it, rather than the usual awkward response when people didn’t know what else to say. “You’re young to have suffered so much loss.”
“I was twenty-three. Fresh out of college. Andrew died two years later.”
Esme tossed back the rest of her drink, and promptly closed the mental compartment that had inched open. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get my phone from my locker and call an Uber.”
“So, you’re giving up?” She turned to find the Master Dom behind her.
“I don’t think I have a choice, sir. I’ve exhausted your list, and my efforts were a miserable failure. Doms don’t like to hear the word no, and have long memories when they do, it seems.”
“Truer words, my friend,” Val muttered under her breath.
Master Eric’s hand curled around the back of his wife’s neck. “No one asked your opinion, little one. Not all Doms are thin skinned, as you well know. Some hear no and take it as a challenge to warm a naughty submissive’s behind.”
Esme sucked in her breath at the very dominant remark, but Val didn’t look quelled by his veiled threat. Instead, she angled her face up to her husband. “I’m sorry, Master. I’ll be good and sit here quietly.
”
No mischief was evident in her vivid blue eyes. She did, however, adopt a suitably submissive expression before she angled her face up to her husband.
An arched brow indicated his skepticism. “I suppose there is a first time for everything.”
“Ouch,” she replied, putting her hand to her chest as though wounded.
Master Eric framed her face with his hand, gentle handling despite their exchange, while Val, who obviously took no real offense, turned her face into his touch.
Feeling like she was intruding on an intimate moment, Esme turned on her stool and faced the bar, spinning her glass with her fingers.
“Are you serious about moving forward?”
Glancing up, she saw both of them gazing at her reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror behind the bar.
“Yes, sir, I really don’t want to leave.”
“I meant about finding a Dom, little subbie.”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought. I’m stuck like my old car in college. It was a four-speed, but I could never get it to go above third gear. I’d give it gas, and the engine would rev, trying hard to get up to speed, but with the flaw in the transmission it never quite got there. I had to drive in the slow lane watching as everyone else passed me by.”
“That’s a very fitting analogy of being stalled in the grief process, Esme.” The amusement had faded from Val’s expression, replaced by kindness, and understanding. “That you recognize it in yourself means you’re ready to get unstuck, perhaps with a nudge in the right direction.”
“I think I seriously want a nudge.”
With a flash of his perfect white teeth, Eric smiled, obviously pleased with her decision, and his smile changed his face from sternly handsome to breathtaking.
Esme couldn’t help but stare.
Beside her Val sighed. “I know how you feel, sister. He’s the best of both worlds, I always say, dominant enough to stop your heart with a look, then melt it with a grin. I was a goner the moment I saw him.”
Eric chuckled though only briefly because he leaned down to plant a smoldering kiss on his subbie wife’s lips. “Hold that thought, love, until I take care of our lost girl here, then I’ll see to melting more than your heart.”
“Yes, sir,” she breathed, no longer appearing either mischievous or amused but hungry, as though ready to jump his bones right there at the bar.
What was it about this place? The hotness factor of the couples was off the charts.
“As for you, Esmerelda. I thought you might need my help and have arranged a suitable dominant for you. Be in the dungeon promptly at seven on Friday.” He reached in his pocket and extended a phone to his wife, which from the glittery aqua case, Esme assumed wasn’t his, but hers. “Valerie will schedule your first counseling appointment, preferably her first available.”
“Eric! You can’t force her to see me.”
“I think she just agreed.” His ice blue eyes turned Esme’s way when he asked, “Isn’t that so?”
With the opportunity to stay now in her grasp, she took it. And Val, a widow herself had to know some of what she was going through. Glancing at her devastatingly handsome husband, she’d done well for herself this second time around. And despite their teasing banter, perhaps not all of it tongue-in-cheek, both looked happy, and very much in love. Nodding at her soon to be therapist, she gave her a tentative smile. “I suppose I just did.”
The little blonde glared at her scary Dom and snatched up the phone. “This is coercion, and couldn’t ever be construed as ethical, but I’ll discuss it with you in the privacy of my office away from pushy Doms.” Her fingers flew across the screen. “I assume you work, so late afternoon? How does a week from Thursday at four o’clock sound to you?”
“I’m a paralegal but can flex my schedule when needed. My boss doesn’t mind as long as I get done what I need to do.”
Master Eric retrieved and pocketed the phone. “Excellent. Now, that we have that all settled, you’ll have to excuse us, I’ve got a misbehaving submissive to punish.”
“Me?” Val exclaimed. “What did I do?”
“Glaring at me in my own club, playing me with that innocent look and those big blue eyes—as if you could—and not two seconds ago you called me pushy.” He shook his head as he stepped behind her and hooked her white cuffs together low at her back. “You’d think after nearly two years together, you would have learned such behavior earns you a stinging red bottom.” He slid his big hand up her back, his fingers curling into her loose curly hair. “Or perhaps this is your way of getting me to pay it more attention. Let’s find an available bench or cross and see to it in either case.”
Val put up no resistance when he lifted her from her stool and set her on her feet.
He eyed the large empty glass in front of Esme. “Looks like you’re done for the night. You’re not driving.” This wasn’t a question.
“She Ubers, sir.”
“Which I’m going to call for now,” Esme assured him.
“Since you have an arrangement, we’ll expect to see you Friday, and not before.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ll see you next week,” Val clarified. “I’m listed in the Long Beach directory under Valerie Thornton. Call if you need directions.”
“Thornton,” Master Eric echoed with a grunt of irritation. “When can we expect that licensure change to come through? Our first anniversary was last month.”
With her hands restrained, she leaned her body into his and looked up sweetly. “You know how it is with government red tape, Master. All the paperwork has been submitted. I’m afraid we’ll just have to be patient.”
“You have me mistaken with Keiran, evidently.” The inside joke, which made Val smile, went clear over Esme’s head. “A year to process a name change is unacceptable. Who do I know in Sacramento?”
“The governor?” Val suggested helpfully.
A grin once again transformed her Dom’s face. Esme noticed several female heads turn as they noticed as well.
“So I do,” Eric exclaimed sounding quite pleased.
“What? I was kidding. How do you know the governor?”
“Baby…” he drawled tellingly.
“Really? He’s a member?” She started looking around the bar with wide eyes.
Eric laughed, caught her chin in his hand, and dipped his head to claim another searing kiss. It required bending at the waist and pulling her into his side to accomplish this feat since he loomed at least a foot over his petite wife, but the gentle caress earned him a beatific smile in return, her impending spanking notwithstanding evidently. “He’ll hear from me first thing in the morning.”
Esme stared after them as they walked toward the dungeon.
What a delightful couple. Val could easily be a friend, which meant being her therapist was out, and Master Eric wasn’t nearly as scary as everyone thought, or as he wanted everyone to believe.
Once they were gone, she left the bar, grabbed her purse and phone from her locker in the women’s changing room and ordered her Uber. Staring out the window on her way home, she felt the whirl of emotions she always did after leaving the club—envy, melancholy, loneliness.
It was past time for her to move on, she knew that. What if one shot at happiness was all fate had in store for her? Even if she were lucky enough to find someone she was willing to take a chance on again, happily ever after, like Val had with Eric, wasn’t guaranteed.
Andrew’s sudden death had proven that.
Fairy tales didn’t exist, at least not for her, or her parents who were t-boned by a drunk driver coming home from dinner out. Thinking they did only gave her false hope and set her up for more heartache.
She’d do a scene or two with the dominant selected for her, to keep in good standing with the Master Dom and the club members, but she wouldn’t get her hopes up. It would be best to focus on the physical, get her needs met at long last, but leave the shields around her heart in place. If they melted a
nd her wounds were exposed, and she felt the pain of such devastating loss again, she didn’t think she’d survive.
Chapter 8
The next two days she had a hard time focusing, this made for long and stressful days, but they were better than the interminable nights filled with disturbing dreams of the unknown dominant she’d meet on Friday. Some were odd, even funny, others scary, and one was downright disgusting. None of them involved Prince Charming, but most featured a somewhat obscure celebrity.
Like the small, quirky balding man who tried rather ineptly to give her a spanking. Esme couldn’t keep from giggling at his awkward attempt to strip her and pull her over his lap and ended up offending him. When her eyes popped open, she realized the Dom was Woody Allen, and she’d fallen asleep with the TV on, To Rome with Love, droning in the background.
They’d gone downhill and become more bizarre from there.
Like when Newman from Seinfeld reruns made her serve him drinks in the Decadence lounge while wearing four-inch spiked heels and his USPS uniform—the one with Bermuda shorts, not a sexy look at all. Or, how the chef from Hell’s Kitchen tied her to a post, spanked her with a spatula while lecturing her about serving chicken raw. And, finally, when Michael Keaton made her wear a skin-tight, black rubber suit, tied her hands over her head to a rope suspended from the mile-high Decadence playroom ceiling, got in her face and repeated, “I’m Batman. I’m Batman.”
She didn’t find out where it went after that, thank goodness, because Phineas jumped on her chest, waking her, and meowed loudly in kitty-speak that it was past time for his breakfast. She’d hugged him close from sheer relief until he squirmed out of her hold, even more perturbed over the further delay of his morning meal.
And that was only Wednesday night’s dreams.
On Thursday, she took a four-year-old Xanax, hoping it would have enough potency left to help her sleep, but she’d had the scariest dreams of all.
First, Carlos had accosted her again in the dungeon, but this time, the Irish DM hadn’t been there to help. While he laughed maniacally, he tied her to his cross as promised and unfurled a twelve-foot bullwhip. She’d cried for help, as he’d cracked it ominously. Her screams had awoken her. She’d scared Phin out of a dead sleep, frightening him so much he’d jumped over her to get off the bed, leaving painful scratches on her arm.
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