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We entered the elevator, and Bunny pressed the lowest button. We descended, and as the doors opened, we were in a vast white space with antique golden mirrors, showers, and marble walls and floor tiles. It looked like an ornate French spa.
Other women occupied the space, changing from their fetish wear of choice and into “civilian clothes,” as Bunny had called them. Their masks remained in place. I was led past them, and curious stares followed me.
“You caused quite the commotion tonight. First, in the swing room,” Bunny said. I grimaced in embarrassment at that memory. “And now they all want to take a peek at the siren who has lured in Maître.”
Bunny stopped at what appeared to be a private changing room. She handed me a card. “This is a personal carrel just for you.” She pointed to the door. “This changing room belongs to Maître’s submissives. Their exclusive room.” Bunny pointed at the lock. I scanned the card over it, and the door opened. My eyes rounded when I peered inside. It was almost as big as my apartment. It was decorated in all golds and whites, and a bathtub in the center of the room was perched on gilded feet. A huge shower was in the corner, and a toilet was in a closed-off room. Couches, a fridge filled with water. And…
“A closet,” I said and walked to the tall golden doors. I pulled them open to find outfit after outfit hung up on white padded hangers. My eyes widened at the sights. Leather and lace and chains.
“Maître’s specific tastes,” Bunny said and pointed to my current siren attire. “You will no longer need the standard siren uniform. Each night you arrive, an outfit from this closet will be waiting for you.” Bunny led me to white elevator doors at the end of the room. “There are three buttons. The top is for Maître’s chambre. You will go directly there every night after you change. You will only see the members of the club if he brings you down to the main floor.” She pointed to the middle button. “This is for this floor. For you to change at the beginning and end of the night.”
“And the bottom button?”
“Is where a town car will await you. They will pick you up from your apartment and return you home.”
“Wow.”
Bunny gave me a smile and brushed past me. “Your clothes for home are hung up in the end closet.”
“How many people have used this room?” I asked.
Bunny turned to me, her purple eyes softening. “None. This is the first time it has been used.” With that, she departed. The door clicked shut, locking everyone else outside.
I scanned the room and, still stunned, made my way to the closet and found the dress and trench coat that I’d arrived in. I dressed and pressed the bottom button of the elevator. As it opened, a large underground parking lot met me. While other people were climbing into parked cars in the lot, mine was waiting for me at the private elevator exit. “Miss,” a driver said, getting out of the car, and he opened the rear door for me. I climbed inside, smiling at him. The windows were tinted so black that no one would see inside. The cars filed out into a tunnel that opened onto a deserted back road.
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you, Maître Auguste?” I said and sat back on the leather seat, closing my eyes. Maître’s masked face sprang to my mind, along with that arrogant flicker of a smirk he had frequently given me.
I inhaled a deep breath when my pulse started to race. His voice, his accent, his cut and ripped body, which had pinned me to him. And those lips, the lips that delivered such soft kisses, and those hands, which had made me come so hard it was akin to reaching nirvana.
Maître Auguste. I ran his name around my head, looking out the window as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. My body felt alive just remembering how I’d felt in his presence. And I would be back there tomorrow night to play.
At that thought, I smiled.
Chapter Eight
“Electrostimulation?”
“Hard limit,” I said, as Novah added that to what we’d deemed the “Oh, fuck no!” list. Novah had found a list online of typical BDSM sex practices. The farther we went down the list, the more I realized what deep shit I was in.
“Riding crops?” Novah asked next. I sat back in my chair in our cubicle, feet up on my desk, hands steepled as I considered each option.
“Soft limit,” I replied. Novah added that to the “Never say never list of things I might try”.
“Blindfolds?”
“I’m okay with that.”
“Ropes?”
“Passable.”
“Vagina worship?”
“Highly encouraged.”
“Forced exercise?”
My feet slammed on the floor and I whipped my head to Novah with breakneck speed. “Hard limit. Really fucking hard limit. Who the hell would put someone through that kind of torture?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Barbaric! Whip me, cane me, tie me to a St Andrew’s Cross, but do not force me into a set of jumping jacks. That’s a definite addition to the “Oh, fuck no” list!”
