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So, for fifteen minutes, we endure a wordless ride, until finally we pull up to the private gates of the club, a mansion that sits on the edge of an elite neighborhood. I roll down my window and key in the entrance code, making it painfully clear that I still have access to the facility. The gates open, and I pull us through them, and we travel the long path hugged by trees and manicured foliage. Once I turn us onto the horseshoe drive, I stop in front of the mansion, holding up my hands to both windows and valets.
I turn to her, and before she knows my intent, I have cupped her neck and pulled her to me. “While we are here, I am your fucking king. You do what I say. You stay by my side. You hold my arm or hand. This, too, is nonnegotiable, and I swear to fucking God, Faith, if you disobey me on this, I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here. Do you understand?”
She breathes out. “Yes.”
I want to kiss her, but I don’t. I hate her being here too damn much, and I will not risk her reading me in any other direction. “Stay,” I order instead. “I’ll come around and get you.”
I don’t wait for her agreement. She doesn’t get a fucking opinion while we’re in this place. I exit the car and speak to the valet, a thirty-something guy named Rick who’s been with the club for a decade. “Hold the car up front,” I tell him. “We won’t be long. Is Kurt here?”
“He is.”
“Have him meet me in the foyer if he’s not indisposed at the moment.” I palm him a large bill and round the car, where Faith thankfully has listened and stayed inside. I grind my teeth and force myself to open her door. She slides her legs to the ground, and I offer her my hand. She hesitates, damn it, she hesitates, and it kills me. It also pisses me off. I squat down, lowering my voice for her ears only. “You aren’t getting out or going anywhere without touching me,” I assure her, “so slide back in and we’ll leave or”—I offer her my hand again—“take my fucking hand.”
She presses her palm to mine, and I stand, taking her with me and moving her to the curb. The car door shuts behind us, and I lace my fingers with Faith’s, bending our arms at the elbows and fitting her snug to my hip. We start the walk up the stairs leading to the entrance, each of the dozen steps a walk of doom I reject. If this goes badly, I will lose her.
I’m not losing her.
We reach the top, and a doorman in a suit—everyone in the place wears suits—well-trained at the kind of discretion the club requires, does not make eye contact. He simply opens the door for us. Inside the foyer, the mansion instantly drips of money, from the expensive paintings on the walls, to the tiles and thick oriental rugs on every floor, to the enormous glass chandelier above our heads. “Where do they lead?” Faith asks of the set of wooden winding stairs directly in front of us, a primarily red multicolored oriental carpet up their center, while a second stairwell leads downward.
“No place you want to go,” I assure her, redirecting her attention. “To the left is a cigar and whiskey room that is just that. Nothing more. No sex. No play allowed.”
“The stairs, Nick,” she says tightly, still keenly focused on them.
“Upstairs is group play. Downstairs, a dungeon and bondage area, among other things. I didn’t go to those places without you, and we won’t be going to them now.”
She faces me. “I want to go to both areas. All areas.”
“I told you, Faith. I didn’t go to those places without you. I won’t take you to them now or ever.” I glance to the left to find Kurt, looking stoic in a black suit and gray tie.
Faith follows my gaze, and Kurt closes the distance between us, standing in front of us in a few moments. “Faith is my guest,” I announce. “She is not, nor will she ever be, applying for membership.” He doesn’t react, but he’s smart enough to know that she’s why he now owns the club. “Faith,” I add, moving on. “This is Kurt. The new owner of the club. Kurt. How long did I own this place?”
“Roughly a year,” he says.
“Who owned it before me?”
“I’m not at liberty to name names, but one of your clients.”
It’s a good answer—the right answer—which sets up the story I’m trying to tell right now. “And this person owned it how long?”
“He created it,” Kurt explains. “It was his from day one ten years ago.”
“And did I ever claim the ownership duties?”
“You did not.”
“Did I ever spend time in any of the places those stairs lead?”
“No, you did not,” he says.
“And why should Faith trust that you aren’t simply protecting me?”
He looks Faith in the eyes for the first time since joining us. “I protect my members, but I don’t lie. I’d decline to answer rather than lie, as I did when asked about the prior ownership. This was never Nick’s place. It was mine. It’s simply official now.” He looks at me. “Room eleven is yours.”
I nod, and he gives Faith another look but says nothing more. He simply turns and walks away. I don’t speak to Faith. I lead her down the hallway, and I don’t stop until we’re at room eleven. I open the door and allow Faith to enter what amounts to a giant bedroom with a wall of sex toys on the left. A massive canopy bed is on the right. A bondage stand is in a half-moon space at the back wall that is covered by a curtain. Beyond that curtain are seats, should you decide to invite viewers, which I never did.
I’ve barely shut and locked the door before Faith is already moving deeper into the room, walking up to the wall of toys. She pauses and grabs a black silk face mask, then walks toward the bondage stand. She steps inside it, her back to me as she starts undressing. I move to a spot a foot back, watching her, waiting, telling myself I’m about to show her that we are still us here and anywhere. That I am still me. Once she’s naked, standing there, her perfect, heart-shaped ass on display, she puts on the mask and then turns to face me. Her arms are at her sides, hands gripping the bars on either side of her. Her breasts are high, full, nipples tight pink nubs. And yeah. My cock is hard. Hard as Sin City is to beat on a good day for a casino, which is every fucking day. This is Faith. She can smile and my cock sees it as an invitation.
“Tie me up,” she demands, her voice quavering, and I don’t miss the way her knees tremble, and that jolts me with realization. She’s trying to be that person she was in the club with Macom. But she’s not that person. And I’m damn sure not Macom.
