Reality's Illusion

by Stephie Walls

  Today was no different.

  “Hello, Sunshine.”

  We exchanged mutual kisses on the cheek. Every time I saw her, it was the same greeting, one especially for me, although I believed she called me “Sunshine” like an oxymoron.

  “Should I even ask where we’re going for lunch?”

  Her laughter filled the room. Time slowed as her head fell back and her throat bobbed with each billowing sound from her chest. It was a deep, throaty laugh—one born from pure happiness. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

  “Nah, the café’s fine.” The truth was, I wouldn’t care if she wanted to dine from a dumpster. Just being with her filled my void. The food was a bonus.

  Whatever it was she loved about that place brought a smile to her face, and that was all I cared about. Her happiness.

  She looped her arm in mine as we walked down the street, talking up a storm about nothing. I heard the words but was listening more to the melody than the verbiage itself. I could fill my days with her sounds. Sera and I were a lot alike. I knew the pain she hid; I knew it intimately, but she chose to show the world a sunny disposition to my dreary raincloud. If she could do it, if she could be someone other than who she was, so could I. She made a conscious effort to bring happiness into the world, not pity or shame from her circumstances. If I hadn’t seen the evidence, I never would have believed she was anything but content, addicted to her world, the arts, the sunshine, and this little café.

  But just beneath her happy disposition and her charming beauty sat the truth, and maybe that was the part Ferry had referred to. The inability to completely mask the ugliness we try to hide. And I’d caught another glimpse of her hidden shame as we sat on the balcony of Rulatta’s. Just beneath the hem of her long, flowy skirt, a hint of the telltale signs peeked out on her leg. The instant she caught my stare, Sera fidgeted in the seat, veiling his damage.

  The internal war became far more than I could handle or keep at bay.

  Deciding to address the issue at hand instead of forcing me to ask, Sera took the lead. “I hadn’t seen him in a while, Bastian. He was a little aggressive last night. I’m fine.” If I hadn’t seen her cloak her pain before, I might have believed her.

  I nodded, but I’d never understand much less accept whatever went on behind Sera’s closed door. The waiter came to take our order, distracting me from pursuing the conversation, and by the time he’d left, I’d decided to let it drop. Sera knew I wasn’t fooled or blind, and if she wanted to share more, she could. But at this point, there was little I could do to help a woman who didn’t want assistance.

  “Are you doing anything tonight?” Her eyes sparkled when the light hit them just right. “There’s a play opening at the Little Theatre. Tickets are cheap if you want to go.” Her ability to effortlessly change the subject was duly noted and well-rehearsed. Sera never missed a beat in her performance.

  “Can I take a rain check? Nate and I are going to Charlotte when he gets off work.” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I wished I’d kept it to myself.

  “What are you guys doing in Charlotte?” Her question was innocent, but the answer not so much.

  Moment of truth: did I lie, give her a vague answer, or give her the honesty I wished she’d give me? As much as I’d like to be vague, the persona I wanted to adopt was forthright and honest. “We are going to a club called The Warehouse.”

  She simultaneously uncrossed her legs and spat her tea all over the front of my shirt in surprise. “Shut up! You are not!” She leaned forward and pushed my chest with her hand. “Bastian, do you have any idea what kind of club that is?” It was endearing that she thought I was that naïve, but it was irritating as well that she’d have reason to think it.

  Wiping her tea off my chest and face with my napkin, I answered her with what I wasn’t sure she was ready to hear. “Yeah, I talked to the club owner for about an hour last week.”

  “But why?” Her tone was incredulous, and it bothered me that she seemed to think it was such a bad idea. “And why are you going with Nate? Do you just want people to think you’re gay?”

  I pulled back, slightly offended. “What do you mean, why? Why does anyone go?”

  “Most people go to play, but it’s not your gig. Based on how little you knew when we talked a couple months ago, Nate obviously isn’t involved, either. So, why?” Little Ms. Interrogation.

  “After we talked, I was interested.”

  “In what?”

  “The lifestyle as a whole.” I didn’t get the interrogation or her confusion; she’d been the one to tell me to do research, and now that I had, she seemed baffled. “Why are you so shocked?”

  Her thin shoulders rose and fell as she bit her lip for a brief moment. “Well, I’ve never had anyone take an interest, much less go to a club.”

  “I read everything I could find online and all the books the local bookstores had, which wasn’t a lot, by the way.”

  A car below us laid on its horn, and when it finally stopped, Sera appeared to have moved past confusion to annoyed. “So you’re just going out of curiosity? I’m surprised the club owner was down with that. Normally, clubs are very particular about who they let in.”

  “No, I’m not just going out of curiosity, and I’m not going to play. I’m going to meet with the owner about finding a mentor.”

  Sera doubled over with laughter—the kind where she couldn’t breathe, she shook, and tears rolled down her cheeks, kind of laughter. I waited for her to calm down, genuinely hurt by her response. And the instant she saw how her reaction had affected me, she sobered.

  “Wait.” She regained her composure. “You’re serious?”

  “Yes.” I refused to look away and maintained eye contact.

  This was part of who I wanted to be. Her reaction couldn’t sway my decision. I’d have to change her perception of me over time, and this was a step toward that. An important one. My gaze remained stoic, stern.

  “Any particular reason?” She wiped the remaining tears from her face.

  “The more I read, the more interested I became, but there’s only so much a person can learn from a book. I don’t want to assume a role I haven’t been trained for. I called a bunch of clubs in Atlanta and Charlotte, and this guy, James—the owner of The Warehouse—believes heavily in mentors. He encourages new members to pair up with someone else, not just for the training piece but to facilitate a friend in the lifestyle, so newcomers don’t feel alone in their journey.”

  “Jesus.” She sat back abruptly and with a huff. “You’re really serious about this. Is he going to match you with another sub?” Shot to the fucking heart.

  At that moment, I wondered if I’d ever change her perception of me. “No. A Dom. He’s going to mentor me himself.”

  “I could see you as a switch.” Her head bobbed in agreement as she acknowledged it with the same assurance the grass was green.

  “No, Sera. Just a Dom.”

  Pity filled her eyes—not wonder, not contemplation, but fucking sympathy. “That’s pretty big for a club owner to take you on. Did you tell him who you are?”

  “No. I gave him my name, but he didn’t seem to recognize it.” I wasn’t aware this was such an unusual thing for a club owner to do; the guy acted like it was a natural progression and his responsibility as an experienced Master to give back.

  She rolled her eyes. “Trust me. The guy knows who you are. This is not a highly publicized world, Bastian. Club owners don’t let strangers into their venues without heavy vetting, and they sure as hell don’t offer their time unpaid. Members pay dearly to know their identities are protected and curious onlookers aren’t lurking in the club shadows. You got in because of who you are, and the fact he knows you can pay the dues should you decide to join. Don’t fool yourself, Bastian. The Warehouse is the Charlotte elite. Big money in those walls.”

  “You act like I’m some A-list actor. No one outside of the art community in our area even knows my name.”


  “Wake up, Bastian. People flew in from all over the world to pay six figures for your paintings not so long ago. You were and always will be the golden boy with a paintbrush. People love your youthful look and the emotion you convey on a canvas, but even more, they love your story. You used to be the prodigy with a stunning wife, who had an amazing voice, both successful in your own right. But now, now you’re the tragic artist who made a comeback after vanishing for years. You are your own Cinderella story.”

  “I think you’re glorifying some horrible years. I’m not benefiting from my wife’s death.”

  “No, you’re benefiting from your ability to recover from a loss that had a profound effect on you. That, in itself, has merit, but what most people aren’t able to do is grow in their craft. They rest on their laurels, putting out the shit they would’ve been ashamed of at the height of their popularity. You came back, and your painting took on a new identity. Your work pre-Sylvie doesn’t even look like the same artist post-Sylvie.”

  Her words stunned me, all of them. I was doing my best to try to make it day by day, finding a glimmer of hope that took me into the next morning. I could admit my work had changed, but not so drastically that it wouldn’t be recognizable as the same artist.

  “Look, my point in all of this is you’re more widely known than you’re willing to admit. You got in because of it. What are you hoping to gain from all this?”

  That was where I drew my line of truth. I wouldn’t lie, but I wasn’t ready to show my hand just yet, either. “I’m just looking to explore an interest, Sera. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Are you looking for kinky sex?” It came off as an accusation, and one I didn’t at all like.

  “Seriously? Do I even resemble that kind of person to you? What the hell, Sera?”

  “No. I’m just taken aback by all this. It seems really sudden. I’m shocked.”

  “It’s not sudden. We originally talked about this several months ago. You told me to do some research. I did. I can’t explain what happened, but it woke something inside me. Maybe it’s nothing, but I won’t know until I explore it. I don’t want to do that blindly and someone get hurt.”

  I hadn’t meant that last part to sound like a slam. Sera flinched, but I saw it.

  13

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Warehouse was aptly named—unassuming and industrial with nothing to give away what hid inside. Just a crisp sign with bold font stood out front without a soul in sight. The club didn’t open for another hour, but I wanted to find the place while we still had a bit of daylight. I figured we could kill time with dinner in the North Davidson Art District, better known as NODA. Everything about the area was art from tattoos to galleries to food. The fish tacos alone were worth the ninety-minute drive.

  With a full belly but no alcohol—the club restricted it—we found ourselves in the lobby of a busy club. And while the outside was nondescript, the inside was sensational—an artist’s dream and an architect’s fantasy. The designer had carried the industrial vibe throughout but done it with class and charm and warmth with rich, royal-blue walls and exquisite brown leather furniture. Every detail was painstakingly cared for and screamed high-end clientele. And by the looks of it, Sera had been right. James likely knew exactly who I was if the artwork on the walls was any indication of who he was—a collector of fine works, several of which were local.

  I assumed the lines formed on each side of the lobby were locker or changing rooms. To the left, men, to the right, women; their exits were on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling wall. It wasn’t possible to see anything beyond that wall from where I stood, and to get into either locker room, each person placed their thumb on a reader. The door closed completely between each entrant. This place was locked down like Fort Knox, and James knew who was coming and going at all times. I’d wager the same system existed on the other side to exit, so there was an electronic log of who was where and when.

  No one appeared bothered by the wait as they chatted with other people in line. Everyone knew everyone else. It was all very controlled. There was no one in this facility that James wasn’t aware of.

  “Bastian?” The thunderous voice to my right caught me off guard, and so did the rather bland man with his hand out.

  I returned the handshake with a smile. “James, I presume.”

  “You would be correct.”

  Turning toward Nate, I said, “This is my best friend, Nate.”

  “Great.” He welcomed Nate the same way he had me, and then he waved us down a hall. “Glad you guys could come by tonight.” He talked as he walked, and we followed. “Things are starting to slow down a bit, so we should be good to talk in my office.”

  The place was deceiving from the outside. While it looked huge from the parking lot, it wasn’t possible to really get a visual until I was inside because I couldn’t see the basement that happened to double The Warehouse’s size.

  An intricate maze of rooms—some set up for specific types of play, having grouped types of equipment in them, bondage, machines, whips, et cetera, while others simply had beds with eyehooks covering them—made up the lower level. The ground floor was more of a huge studio with few walls separating the space. People played publicly, baring all. I wasn’t as surprised as Nate was to see people engaging in open sexual activity. I was shocked, however, by the disinterest of the patrons in others. No one cared what the couple or group next to them was doing or even paid them any attention.

  The only places that gathered crowds were the demonstrations being held. We didn’t linger long at any of them. James was too busy pointing out all the requirements and regulations for the facility. There was no penetration—oral, vaginal, or anal—without condoms. None—not even for married couples. Violating that rule was grounds for immediate termination of your membership and dismissal from the premises, and security guards roamed the facility to enforce the rules. Although, I never saw one interfere or even interact with someone who hadn’t sought them out.

  I’d been surprised by the lengths James went to in order to monitor new subs. All had mentors assigned to them and had to log a set number of watched hours of play to ditch the shadow—and it didn’t happen quickly. Subs tended to get into situations they didn’t know how to manage, and the mentors were there to show them the way.

  I was in total awe of the entire place, everything about it. Every detail was in fine tune, perfectly placed. James had invested a lot of time and money to hone this into a well-oiled machine.

  Four hours later and rather exhausted, Nate and I walked out of The Warehouse. James had spent a great deal of time explaining how The Warehouse mentor program worked. Membership to the club was mandatory because of the exposure to other clients, and after he took us on a tour of the facility, Nate and I walked out in the middle of the night.

  “What the hell was that Bastian?” Nate wasn’t as impressed as I was.

  “Not your thing?”

  He clicked the keyfob and unlocked the doors. Then he waited until we got inside to speak. “People were having sex on swings in front of an audience. Is that your thing?”

  It wasn’t, and he knew that wasn’t what this was about for me. “I’m not after kinky sex, Nate. You know that. I want what James can teach me about being assertive, more confident—dominance in general. I want to learn to be a leader, not just for Sera but also for me. The last few years have kicked my ass and my self-confidence.” I buckled my seatbelt and faced my friend. “I’ve never been super outgoing, but I was always sure of myself. I need that back, Nate.”

  He sighed and cranked the ignition before turning to me. “If your motivation is truly for self-betterment, I’m all for it. I just want you to be sure before you put that kind of money on the line that there’s not another way to accomplish the same goal.”

  “I’m going to think about it for a couple days before committing to anything.” And I would. It was a hefty investment.

  The background checks alone must cost
a fortune, and the blood tests another chunk of change. Sera wasn’t kidding about the heavy vetting. Even if I’d signed on the dotted line tonight and handed over my bank account information, it would be a couple weeks before I could step foot behind the wall at The Warehouse.

  I wondered if all clubs were like that or just The Warehouse because of their clientele.

  “Keep in mind that means you’ll be coming to Charlotte regularly as well. This isn’t just a hop, skip, and jump down the road. It’s ninety-eight miles from your house to the front door. You’ll need to commit several nights a month for this to be effective and worth the money.”

  All were valid points I would have to consider. I’d never been the type to drop this kind of cash on anything. Sylvie had spent weeks convincing me it was better to own than rent because the thought of taking large sums of money out of savings for a down payment blew my mind.

  “Wasn’t the whole reason for wanting to go out of town to keep Sera from finding out about it?”

  “That and I didn’t want to run into her while I was learning.”

  “Well, she already knows, and from what I gather, the learning process is years long. This is not a role you’re going to assume anytime soon, Bastian.” He turned onto the highway, and I found myself frustrated by the swing in the conversation.

  “Again, I’m not looking to assume the role. I want the confidence a Dom possesses. If the other stuff comes with it, great, but that’s not really what I’m seeking.” All of that was true, it just wasn’t my sole motivation, either.

  “But is that what Sera’s after?”

  I’d considered the same thing. I wanted to be what she needed because I didn’t think that was what she currently had. Her needs were twofold: first, to give up control, and second, pain. I didn’t know enough about her desire for the latter to confidently say I could fill that need—ever—but I had mentioned it to James. We’d talked briefly about ways to meet her desire and simultaneously, learn to use the tools of a masochist. But we both agreed, I was nowhere near either place.