"We're close," I say as we reach a district that’s a mix of industrial decay and the new city. Abandoned warehouses have been transformed into overpriced lofts and exclusive venues, but the stink of desperation still clings to these streets.
I park in a discreet lot beside a renovated warehouse. The building's exterior offers little indication of its real purpose, kind of like most of my facilities.
There are no signs, just an expensive black door with a security camera, way too state-of-the-art for how the warehouse looks.
"Don’t do anything unless I signal you to," I tell Brynn as we approach, knowing how invested she really is in this and how easy it would be for her to snap. Almost as easy as it is for me.
I ring the door, and a man dressed in black lets us in, signaling us to go down the stairs.
We descend the narrow corridor until we reach a luxurious room painted gold. The reception area. Black, plush Chesterfield furniture sits atop polished marble floors. Dim lighting casts shadows across walls filled with erotic abstract art that depicts different states of submission and dominance.
The scent of expensive cologne mingles with something else, a faint hint of sweat and sex.
"This isn't what I expected," Brynn murmurs, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in our surroundings.
A woman approaches us, her body encased in a corset of black leather that accentuates her impossible curves. Silver chains connect across her outfit, tinkling softly as she moves with too much sensuality to be just the receptionist.
"Welcome to the Exclusivista," she purrs, her eyes lingering on me, then switching to Brynn. "Do you have a reservation, or are you here as guests of a member?"
"John Ashford," I reply. "We have a meeting scheduled at noon."
Her perfectly injected lips curve upward. "Ah, yes. I’m Mr. Ashford’s assistant. He mentioned you might be early. It may be a while... He's currently...tiedup." She pauses, trying to hold back her amusement. "Inallsenses of the word. If you'd like to wait in our main area, I can bring you a drink."
She gestures toward a doorway draped with black satin curtains, through which the sounds of music and distant moans spill.
"Lead on," I smile, placing my hand at the small of Brynn's back as we follow the woman.Thisis certainly going to be interesting.
Beyond the curtain, the true nature of the club is revealed. The space opens into a series of elegantly designed areas. Some of them are open, others semi-private behind the same black satin curtains or privacy screens, and some even behind closed doors.
In one corner, a woman suspended in an intricate web of red rope, twists slowly. Her naked body trembling as a masked figure traces patterns across her skin with a feather, only to lash his whip a few times over her tender flesh. Not that she seems to complain. More like moan from the pleasure.
Nearby, a man with a Zorro mask covering the upper part of his face, but still holding on to his expensive suit, kneels before a dominatrix, his lips showing off a hint of ecstasy and surrender as she presses a stiletto heel against his chest, giving him—and us—a clear view of her lack of panties.
The air vibrates with the mingled scents of arousal, leather, and the faint metallic scent of blood from where boundaries are being tested.
These kinds of places have existed since civilization’s dawn. Sex has always been the most powerful currency, even among the most devout Christians. Everything comes down to sex because, in the end, it’s the only thing that keeps humanity going.
All of this resonates with something primal inside me. With the beast that understands power exchange at its most fundamental level.
I feel Brynn's pulse quicken beneath my fingers, her breathing shifting subtly as her eyes dart from one scene to another. She's not shocked. I've seen enough of her fantasies to know better. Instead, there's a curious hunger in her gaze that catches myattention, and I can’t help but explore it. The assistant did say Ashford won’t be with us for a while.
"This way to the private lounges," our guide says, leading us to a quieter section where plush seating areas offer some separation from the main floor.
Once seated, I pull out my phone and send a message to 404 from my encrypted number.
Ares: What the fuck is this place? Did you know about this?
404: Boss?
Me: It’s a fucking sex club.
404: Hang on... Exclusivista.
404: Oh shit. It's an exclusive BDSM club. Membership by invitation only…
404: Opened three years ago, ownership obscured through shell companies.
404: I'm finding financial connections to Ashford. He's a major investor, if not the actual owner.
