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These people want to be tied up and whipped, I remind myself. It’s why they came here.
Sweat forms under my arms and between my breasts as I slowly progress through the room. A small crowd has gathered toward the back corner where rhythmic thuds that sound like drumming call to me like a beat I could dance to. I catch myself swaying as I circle the crowd, looking for a way in so I can see why they’ve congregated.
Finally, I spot an opening and wedge my way in.
My lungs forget how to function.
I see Aidan dressed in black jogging pants and nothing else, not even socks.
And Fiona, or someone shaped very much like Fiona from the back, cuffed to a large, wooden, X-shaped cross. Her dark hair has been braided and coiled into a bun, exposing her reddened back—made redder with every fresh kiss from the leather flogger in Aidan’s fist.
I watch them, enraptured, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I should leave before Aidan sees me. But I can’t make myself turn away.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what I heard the last time I was in this house.
Now I’m finally seeing it with my own eyes.
Thankfully, Aidan seems focused on the task at hand. I take this rare opportunity to stare freely at his powerful arms and toned back. Fiona moans as he switches up his flogging rhythm, his wrist arcing in the shape of a figure-eight.
This must’ve been the technique Fiona was referring to the night she came to visit. Or, more specifically, the reverse version of this technique, which he switches to when her moans devolve into whimpers. His aim shifts downward, striking her ass and granting her back a reprieve. The pink thong she’s wearing makes it easy to see her skin’s reaction to each of his blows.
After about a minute, he stops and lays the flogger down on a table beside the cross, then picks up a thin, wooden cane.
I’ve read about canes. How painful they are. How punishing they can be.
I wince as Aidan brings the cane down, leaving a red line across Fiona’s backside. She yelps. I listen for a safe word and watch for subtle signals that she wants him to stop, but she doesn’t make any. He hits her again. I watch him strike her five times in total, utterly absorbed. She’s crying—borderline wailing—but she’s not begging him to stop.
I think about all the times I’ve been hit when I didn’t ask for it, on top of the agony I put my body through in the name of art. I’ve been smiling through my own pain for as long as I can remember.
What a relief it would be to be able to cry and whimper unapologetically, like Fiona is doing now.
Aidan rests a hand between her shoulder blades and she immediately calms. He uncuffs her ankles and then her wrists. She kneels on the floor in front of him, her face a tear-streaked mess.
I wonder if she’s going to give him a blow job. My stomach coils in on itself. As much as I want to see more of Aidan, I don’t think I can bring myself to watch that.
Dropping onto her elbows, Fiona touches her brow to the tops of his feet, then rises. As Aidan grabs a towel to wipe the sweat from his face, an older man I hadn’t noticed at the edge of the crowd approaches Fiona with a leash. He clips it to the ring on her collar, petting her flushed cheeks.
“That’s my good girl,” the man says. He kisses her forehead. Fiona smiles, practically glowing with satisfaction. I realize the man must be her husband. What was his name again? I don’t have much time to ponder, as Fiona’s gaze drifts in my direction.
Her smile falters. She remembers me.
Turning on my heel, I weave back into the crowd, but the number of onlookers must’ve grown while I was watching. There are too many people to wade through. I try pushing past a man in a dog mask, and end up getting jostled.
Lemonade sloshes from my champagne flute onto an expensive-looking shirt belonging to a very expensive-looking man.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive-toned skin and full lips. His gaze pierces my composure like an arrow. This man radiates dominance, and something else. Something primal...
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I’ll pay for—”
“You will pay.” His accent is thick, but I can’t place it. He wraps his large hand around my neck. “In fact, I’ll take your skimpy little—”
“Dante.” The word resounds throughout the gym, putting a stop to all other sounds. The crowd in our corner of the room dissipates in an instant, making space for Aidan to approach.
My bottom lip trembles. I’ve never seen him so livid, but he’s not directing his ire at me. He’s aiming it at the man who has his hand around my throat.
“Unless you want to lose that hand,” Aidan growls, “I strongly advise you let her go.”
Aidan’s guests shift uneasily, whispering amongst each other. Dante squints at Aidan, then eyes me shrewdly, like he’s assessing my worth before deciding to let me go.
“She owes me a shirt,” Dante says, then steps away.
I feel Aidan’s presence at my side like the gust of heat from an oven. My pulse bolts. He’s going to ask me what the hell I’m doing here, and no matter what I tell him, it’s going to be embarrassing.
Because I want the same things you do... And I want you to do them to me.
I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze. “I just wanted to—”
“Not here,” Aidan says. “Upstairs. Now.”
