by Blue Saffire
See me, I will her. Look at me.
At first, her eyes sweep past me, then snap back to my face an instant later. My heart pounds in my chest as our eyes connect.
I see you too.
She swallows hard and brings the glass to her lips. Lifting mine as well, I offer her a silent salute and chuckle when she looks behind her, over one shoulder then the next.
I smile. She’s refreshing. Doesn’t appear to be high maintenance. An interesting mix of fresh but vibrant. Strong yet timid. I haven’t been this instantly fascinated by a woman in many years.
“Are you certain I can’t arrange an introduction?” Logan asks, his voice amused.
I don’t take my eyes off her, even as she turns away, her sweet ass swaying under the dipping back of her dress. She sets her glass down, rejects another potential suitor, then glances back up at me. It’s a good sign.
“It’s opening night. I’m needed here.”
“Bullshit. Club X is a well-oiled machine.”
It’s true. And I’ve been bored out of mind the past few hours.
Fuck it. I haven’t taken time off for myself in months. “Do we have a private room available?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Logan tap his iPad. I could have done it myself, but my interests are otherwise engaged. “Actually, we do.”
“Book it. Have the staff send chocolates, strawberries, and champagne.”
I can see, practically feel, my friend grinning but ignore him. “Yes, Master X.” He slaps me on the back. “Welcome back to the saddle.” Then he’s gone, leaving me to watch her pretend like she isn’t watching me.
4
Caroline
As a man crawls on the floor being led around like a dog, I realize I’m the only one gaping.
I gulp the rest of my drink, hoping it will calm my nerves, open my mind, and make me a hell of a lot less judgmental. After all, I can’t write a non-biased article if my brain is screaming at me to run, to get away from these fetish freaks.
My glass is empty as I attempt to take another sip, but cling to the glass even when a passing waiter asks to take it.
Good lord. A woman walks by wearing nothing but two strips of cloth, and she has welts all over her butt and the back of her thighs, one of them nearly seeping blood. Why would anyone not only allow that, but want it?
At this point, my article has many more questions than answers.
I’m still trying to wrap my mind around everything I’m seeing when the music changes and purple lights turn on, pointing toward a stage I hadn’t realized was there. Grasping my still empty glass, I walk closer, curiosity and morbid fascination getting the better of me.
On the positive side of things, the club is really beautiful and much different than I expected. Instead of a dark seedy sex club I’d imagined in my mind, there are white marble floors and chandeliers gleaming high overhead, the crystal creating prisms that reflect dots of color throughout the room. There’s a curving grand staircase leading up to a balcony. I wonder what’s up there?
Okay, more people wearing much more expensive clothes than us lowly ones on the floor. Must be a VIP section and….
Whoa.
My breath catches as I meet the eyes of a man standing with his hand on the railing. My journalism eye takes him in, from the dark hair to his vibrant blue tie to his gleaming leather shoes. He’s… beautiful. Handsome. Sexy. I can’t tell the color of his eyes in this light and from this distance, but I think he’s looking at me.
He lifts his drink and smiles.
Self-consciously, I look over my left shoulder and then my right, making sure he’s not smiling at someone behind me, but there’s no one there. I look back up and notice he’s standing next to another man. Both men are very handsome, but I’m only drawn to the one.
The music changes again, this time even more driving, the bass vibrating through my chest. The purple lights grow brighter, and I glance in that direction. The stage. People are walking up the steps.
What are they doing?
Intensely curious, I step closer, weaving through the crowd of onlookers who have stopped dancing and are now waiting for the… what?... to begin.
I notice her first, a gorgeous woman wearing a dress consisting of nothing but fishnet, her pink nipples on prominent display. She’s completely nude underneath, not even a g-string to cover her bare mound. As I watch, a man dressed in a tuxedo steps up behind her and pulls her long, blonde hair back from her face. He braids it, then fastens something around her neck. A collar, I realize. Through this entire process, her face is completely serene.
The man kisses her shoulder, his hands running down her arms to take her hands, pulling them behind her back. He whispers something in her ear, and whatever it is makes her nipples harden. She exhales in what could be described as a sigh but feels closer to total surrender.
As I watch, he walks her over to a padded bench and bends her over it, her breasts and braid dangling on the other side. Stepping away, the Dom picks up a coil of rope and begins to fashion an elaborate set of knots around the woman’s arms, beginning above her elbows and stopping at her wrists. During this entire process, I watch her face. While mine is tight with anxiety, a small smile plays on her lovely lips.
The crowd grows even quieter, the music lowering until it’s only a sultry stream of sounds in the background.
The sound of the smack makes me jump as the man’s hand comes down on her behind. Still, I watch the submissive’s face. That’s why I’m here, after all. Not just to write about a sex club and the things one can experience there, but to better understand the psyche behind it all. Why a woman as stunning as this would serve herself up to be humiliated in this fashion.
But she doesn’t look humiliated.
She looks… what? Serene is still the word that comes to my mind. More than that, she looks aroused. I move closer to the stage, needing to see better. Hear better. Feel the heat of them better, so maybe I can understand.
The submissive’s eyes open and connect with mine. Her eyelashes flutter as the hand comes down on her ass again. This time, a small sound — a moan? a cry of pleasure? — issues from her throat.
This is too personal, too intimate a display for me to be watching, but I cannot look away. The Dom comes to her head and whispers something else in her ear. She shudders, gooseflesh appearing on her arms.
I want to know what he said.
In some part of my mind, I make a mental note to track down and interview this woman. But it’s not just for the article, I realize. I want those words. I want to hear them. Feel them. Absorb them.
Almost like I’m feeling them now. The hair raises on my arms. My senses sharpen. My stomach tightens as I feel myself grow wet between my legs.
“It’s beautiful, no?”
My breath catches in my lungs. Electricity crackles around me as I breathe in his scent, the smell of him enclosing around me. Spice and leather and cedar with a hint of whiskey. I close my eyes and know it’s him.
The man from the balcony. He’s behind me. For some reason, I know it’s him. I felt him approach. Feel him now.
“I’m not sure.”
My eyes are still locked on the girl’s as a cane comes down on the arches of her bare feet. I wince for her, because she doesn’t.
“Watch her face,” the man behind me directs, his heat soaking into my back.
Her eyes roll back in her head, and she bites her lower lip. “I am.”
I jump as the cane comes down again. And again. And again. Sometimes a hard lick, sometimes a light pat. She even seems disappointed with the latter. When he hits her hard again, I’m the one who shivers. Not from witnessing the consensual beating, but from the need clearly written on her face.
Tucking the cane beneath his arm, the Dom raises the hem of her quasi-dress to her waist, showing off the pink and white flesh, the design caused not only from the beating itself, but from him spanking her through the fishnet. I press my thighs together as he ben
ds and kisses the damage he’s inflicted, running his tongue over her reddened flesh.
With a knee, he spreads her legs apart, and my heart begins to race harder. Instead of the cane this time, his hand comes down, but not on her ass cheeks… on her center. Her hands, still bound behind her back, flex open then clench into tight fists as he spanks her there again. This time his hand lingers between her thighs.
The angle is wrong for me to see, but I know he’s entered her with his fingers. Her cry of pleasure, her head arching back is proof. He pistons his hand, short driving strokes in and out of her. He’s watching her carefully — so am I — and when I’m sure she’s going to orgasm, he stops. The bastard.
“Orgasm denial is very intense,” the man says from behind me, his lips close to my ear, although he doesn’t touch me. I wonder why he doesn’t touch me. More disturbing is that I wonder why I want him to.
I lean back just enough so that the material of his jacket touches my bare back. Holy shit… is it cashmere? I lean back a little more, and it takes all of my willpower not to press more fully against him, take more of his heat.
“Why does he deny her?” I ask, unsure if he can hear the low, raw words come out of my throat.
He does. “To bring her increased pleasure later. That is his job, to know what she needs, to please her.”
That surprises me. And it reads of bullshit.
I turn to face him and immediately regret the decision. He looked good on the balcony, but up close, the virile sexiness of his face nearly knocks me off my feet.
“Watch,” he commands, and for some reason, I want to obey. For the article, I tell myself, but in truth, there’s another reason… a darker reason… why I turn around again. “May I touch you?”
The question surprises me, and even in my heightened state of arousal, I give myself a moment to consider it. I’m here to learn, to explore, examine, research. The man behind me is absolutely a Dom, although he isn’t the Dom I’m looking for. At least I don’t think he is.
Surely, he isn’t.
From the pictures I’ve seen, Master X sports a beard while this man is more clean shaven, only a hint of scruff on his face. They both are tall, dark, and handsome with light blue eyes, but so are hundreds, thousands, of other men.
No. This can’t be Master X for one glaringly obvious reason.
Why would the billionaire owner of a chain of sex clubs be coming onto me?
I’m actually shocked that this man, whoever he is, is coming on to me. There are more women than men in the club, so it isn’t like he has to tap at the bottom of the barrel.
I realize I haven’t answered him. Can he touch me? I long for him to touch me. For research sake, I say, “Yes.”
I expect him to touch my arms or my shoulders, but his hand goes to my hair. His fingers sink into the strands before he wraps the length around his palm. He pulls my head to the side until his lips press against my ear. “See how wet she is?”
Yes, I can see her arousal glistening on the Dom’s hand. “It’s not proof that she wants this. She might just be a…”
A what? A wetter? Sweet baby Jesus, I need to learn to speak the lingo before opening my mouth. And I don’t need to be thinking about Jesus or any type of deity while in a sex club. I’m pretty sure that is the doorway to hell.
The Dom on stage licks his hand, and I groan, unsure if what I’m feeling is longing or revulsion. I’ve never had a man do something like that with me. Something so intensely personal. Pay such close attention to me.
“Watch her face if you need proof regarding the rest of her body.” The deep timbre of his voice vibrates through me, moving down to my toes before it travels back to settle between my legs.
He’s right, I know it. The very definition of ecstasy is written on her expression for everyone in this room to see.
I just don’t understand it.
“Why?”
His lips touch my ear. “Why what?”
“Why does she enjoy this? Are you sure it isn’t just an act? A performance?”
He chuckles. “Would you like to interview her later?”
I turn my head as far back as his grip on me will allow, my neck craning so I can look up into his face. “Can I?”
He seems genuinely startled by the question, then his eyes narrow, his hand loosening in my hair. “What’s your name?”
Turning more fully, I consider my answer and decide on the truth. “Caroline Murphy. And you?”
His eyes scan my face. “Xavier. Xavier Cross.”
My nipples tighten. My core tightens. Everything tightens except my jaw, which sags a little.
It is him.
I stick out my hand. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m with Glam magazine.”
A muscle pops in his jaw, and for a moment, I feel sure he’s going to walk away. He takes a step backward, halts, then closes the gap between us. His palm is warm against my own. “You’re very persistent,” he says.
“You’re very clean shaven,” I return, studying his face.
He chuckles and brings my hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle in turn. An old-fashioned gesture considering a woman is giving a man head right beside us. “I am.”
“And you wish to interview me for your magazine.” It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I swallow. I know the answer to this question is because the story was assigned to me and that people will be curious as to what’s inside the mind of an owner. A Dom. But that isn’t what comes out of my mouth.
“I want to understand.”
Behind me, the woman on stage cries out. Beside me, the man comes in the woman’s mouth.
While I notice these erotic things, all my attention is on the man in front of me.
My hand is still in his and the wait turns into agony as I wait for his answer.
“I’m sorry,” he says and my heart drops. “I won’t allow you to interview me.” The disappointment is acute. “I must show you instead.”
5
Xavier
Well, this should be interesting.
I find myself nearly vibrating with tension and anticipation as I wait for this uniquely interesting woman’s response. I very much want her to “interview” me, I realize, and it’s clear that she wants that too. At least her body does. Hell, I think her heart does. Her mind, however, is wrestling through the pros and cons.
“Sh-show m-me…?” She clears her throat, her chin coming up. “How exactly do you propose to do such a thing?”
I smile. “I imagine that you’re interested in understanding why one person would submit to another person in this way.” I look over her head at the stage to where the submissive is enjoying wax play, the red wax of a candle dripping down her legs.
Caroline nods. “Yes, I would like to understand. For the article, of course. Can’t you just tell me?”
The article only? I don’t think so.
“Can you tell a baby how to walk?”
Her green eyes narrow. “Yes and no.”
“Exactly. You can tell those little ones how to walk through words of encouragement and guidance, but it is only through the experience of walking that they are able to truly put one foot in front of the other. Same with riding a bike. Driving a car. Fucking. Finding the bliss of an orgasm.”
Her breathing grows more shallow with each word, and she sucks her lower lip into her mouth, chewing on it with her teeth as she considers what I’ve said.
Will she? Won’t she?
“I’m not having sex with you.”
I lift a casual shoulder. “That’s disappointing.”
Her eyes are so large, they are just this side of cartoonish when she asks, “It is?”
She has body issues, self-confidence issues. She shouldn’t, but she does. Has she never had a man worship her curves, shown her how truly beautiful she is? I can remedy that.
“Yes, it is. When I saw you enter the room, I imagined us together. Imagined m
y hands on your breasts, my mouth on your pussy. I imagined making you come over and over. Imagined you begging for mercy.”
The eyes grow even larger and her breathing is affected from the picture I painted in her mind. Then she blinks, snapping herself out of the seduction. “I’m not a whore.”
This pisses me off. “And neither are any of the women in this room. They simply see sexuality differently from others. They aren’t afraid of what their bodies crave. They’re honest about their desires, at least within the safety of these walls where judgement is checked at the door.”
She seems to consider this, looking around. I watch her watch the people surrounding her, fighting with her own views of how sexuality should be.
She blinks rapidly and turns that green gaze back to me. “I’m not sure how far I’m willing to go for this, um, interview.”
I can respect that. “Then you will submerge yourself as far as you are comfortable. But if you want to truly understand this lifestyle — at least my lifestyle — you won’t pre-define anything as a limit. You’ll allow yourself to explore until you desire to stop in the moment.”
Her head cocks to the side. “How is it different? Your lifestyle?”
“I’m a sexual Dominant. I require control in the bedroom only. As a Master, I hold ownership of my pet’s body, but again, only in the bedroom.”
She snarls, her lips curling back. “Pet.”
“Yes.” It’s hard not to laugh. “Would you prefer slave?”
She bristles, and a bristling Caroline Murphy is a sight to behold. “Th-th-that’s just cruel. Inhuman. Wrong.”
Very carefully, I turn her to face the stage again. Moving close to her back, I lean down until my lips are at her ear. “Does that look cruel?”
Caroline gasps as the candle that was once used to drip wax moves in and out of the submissive’s anus while the Dom, on his knees now, licks her pussy.
“He controls her pleasure and he thrives on her pleasure. He enjoys pushing her limits, but only until she tells him to stop. She’s in control. With one word, this is over. With one word, he stops and cares for her as he would his most precious possession.”
