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Anchored is different, and it’s one of the reasons I love this club.
I park in the parking lot and adjust my hair in the mirror one last time. I’ll go to the locker room to change, but I want to make sure I look good before I head inside. I don’t have a set Dom or Domme to play with tonight. In fact, I’m not even sure if I want to play tonight, but I do know that I want to look good.
I want to look my best.
The club itself is inside a remodeled mini-cruise ship. The lights shine and sparkle on the outside and Anchored is painted on the side of the ship. There’s no noise, though, no sound. The entire ship has been soundproofed and no one plays on the outer decks. All the club stuff is kept inside. It’s one way to ensure the club stays open and, most importantly, private.
If I was just driving by, I would think this was either a legitimate cruise ship or perhaps a little restaurant. There’s no large sign hanging outside to indicate this is anything other than a private boat, however, and that keeps roaming eyes away.
E
ven in the rare instance that someone might wander up to the door, no one can get inside without a keycard. I swipe mine to let me in the building and then go up to the receptionist to check in. Then it’s time to head to the locker rooms, drop my things off, and get ready for the night.
When I arrive in the women’s locker room, Odessa is there talking with Mistress D. They’re deep in conversation when I walk in, but they both look up when they see me.
“Christina,” Odessa walks over and wraps her arms around me. “How are you doing tonight, sweetie?”
“I’m fine, hon,” I hug her back, but there’s something about Odessa that’s a little bit off. She looks like something is wrong. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she says. “But,” she glances over her shoulder at Mistress D, whose face is unreadable. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, okay?”
“Um, okay.” Odessa leaves the locker room quickly, which is strange. Usually, the two of us linger and get ready together. I turn back to Mistress D. In the locker room, we’re all equals. There’s no protocol or kneeling or submitting in here. In here, we’re just normal people getting ready for a night of fun, but still, the way she’s looking at me makes me uncomfortable.
“Christina,” she says. “I think we need to talk.”
I nod, dropping my things on a bench. I’ll put them in a locker after our conversation, which I think is going to be awful. I don’t know what she’s going to say, but it’s going to be hard to hear. Slowly, I make my way to Mistress D and sit down beside her.
“What’s wrong?” I ask quietly.
“Our scene last week was wonderful,” she says.
“I enjoyed it, too.”
“But you didn’t let me give you aftercare.”
I sigh. We’ve been over this before. I don’t do aftercare because I don’t do relationships. I’m not interested in getting involved with someone, so I’m not interested in getting their hopes up. Aftercare, to me, represents an exchange of emotions.
“I don’t do aftercare.”
“It’s a problem for me.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I can’t get on stage and play with a submissive, bring her to the edge, and then leave her alone, honey. I can’t do it. It goes against everything I believe as a Dominatrix. I love playing with you Christina, but until you’re ready to accept aftercare, I won’t play with you at the club again.”
Tears sting my face as I realize what she’s saying. I understand where she’s coming from. Hell, she might be right, for all I know, but I’m not ready to admit that she’s right. I’m not ready to admit that I might need more than I’m getting. I’m not ready to admit that part of the job of the Dominant partner is to provide the emotional support that a submissive needs after a scene.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you need.”
She takes my hands and looks at me with admiration, with kindness, with pity.
“You’ve been through a lot in the last few years, doll. I don’t pretend to know what you’ve been through or what you’re going through. I don’t pretend to understand what it’s like to lose a partner. I haven’t been through what you have, so maybe I’m being selfish, but I can’t keep doing this. Letting you walk away after a scene breaks my heart. It crushes me every fucking time and I can’t keep doing it. I’m sorry, sweetie.”
“I understand,” I say, even though I’m filled with embarrassment and humiliation at being called out.
“This won’t affect anything at work,” Mistress D assures me, which is good because I have to see her every day.
“I know,” I tell her honestly. “Don’t worry. I’ll be professional, too. You don’t have to worry about me getting weird or bitchy next week.”
