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“It’s hot,” Alexis commented, nodding again.
“Hot as hell,” Serena agreed.
“Indeed, Dr. Thomas,” asserted another man’s voice. “It’s hot beyond your wildest imagination, my love.”
“I am not your love.” Alexis turned and faced the dark-haired man.
Another Dom, Serena thought. This was beginning to get interesting. Both of her friends had been snatched up by very virile Doms within the first ten minutes of setting foot in the club. They were both in for a hell of a night.
Serena had never been attracted to Doms. Although some Dommes enjoyed switching roles, alternating between playing the Dominant and the submissive partner from scene to scene—or sometimes even within a scene—Serena had always felt repulsed by the idea of being someone’s sub.
She was a Domme, through and through.
“Well then,” Serena excused herself. “If you all will excuse me, I will go powder my nose…” She gathered up her purse. “...for the next two hours.”
“Make it twelve hours,” Rod called out. “Alexis won’t be home tonight.”
Good. Now she was on her own to pursue her own passions.
* * *
Serena went back inside and slipped past the bar where Valentina was still lost in rapt attention with the two men. The club was nice enough—for people who wanted to dabble but not actually take the plunge. It was a place for amateurs and wannabes.
She intended to find out where the actual BDSM club was located.
“Where’s the real club?” she asked the well-muscled bouncer back at the front door. The man was huge, well over six foot six, and close to three-hundred pounds. He looked like a Navy SEAL or an NFL defensive lineman. She thought she recognized him from the Chicago Bears a few years back.
“Where are the Sore Horses?” she asked.
The big man shrugged.
“What do you mean?” He played dumb.
“The only cages I see are hanging from the ceiling ten feet in the air,” she observed, “and they’re just for decoration. That one there,” she pointed with her finger, “wouldn’t even support fifty pounds. It’s a fake, just for show. Those D-rings aren’t even soldered.”
The bouncer still didn’t budge.
Serena had no interest whatsoever in the rookie bar; her true destination was the public dungeon where she could have a random encounter in the play space, then go home by herself with no strings attached.
Or no chains attached. She laughed inwardly at her play on words.
“I want to see the real club, you little shit!” she said firmly in her Domme voice.
The bouncer nodded and opened a locked metal door behind him. “Yes, Mistress.” He ushered her in.
The first thing that greeted her was a huge poster: “No alcohol, no drugs, no smoking!”
She rolled her eyes; as if anyone who was a true practitioner of BDSM would ever dream of mixing alcohol or drugs with the practice. The idea was ludicrous.
And ridiculously dangerous.
Plus, it was completely unnecessary. The natural endorphin high that accompanied S&M activity was unparalleled.
Serena headed down the dark corridor, her six-inch stiletto heels echoing with each brisk step. The floor was polished mahogany wood and the walls were lined with every sort of crop, quirt and paddle ever invented. Bulbs shaped like candles flickered from wrought-iron sconces every few feet. The faux-finished walls were painted deep burgundy.
So far, it looked like pretty much every other place she’d been, Serena thought.
Just then, her cell phone beeped. It was a text message from Valentina.
