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L’Amour is deep and intricate, like a maze. Unlike Salacious, which was obviously well-planned to be a sex club, this establishment feels a bit more like a converted night club that they made up as they went along. The entire floor is dark and cavernous with dim glowing lights around the perimeter. It operates much like Salacious’s VIP room, but less discreetly and on a much larger scale.
That is not where I’m taking Daisy. She wouldn’t last a minute in there. I’d have to hide her in my coat to keep their dirty hands off of her, and I don’t have the patience for that tonight.
Instead, I want Daisy to appreciate the other side of kink.
This part wasmyaddition. It’s a smaller section of the club, and much like the voyeur hallway of Salacious, but instead of a hallway, it’s a grand room with large partitioned stalls inside. Each one is open, not even a plexiglass window between the partaker and the audience. Although it’s not about voyeurism and exhibitionism here. It’s about something deeper and more meaningful. Almost like artists in a museum—Daisy did say she wanted more art in her life.
As we enter the BDSM level of the room, I watch her eyes grow rounder as she takes in the sights. She hugs herself closer to me as we walk, and I’m forced to remember that I’ve been desensitized—Daisy hasn’t, and it’s a bit much to take in at first.
So, we take it slow. Starting a good distance away, I let her curiosity lead us. There’s a bondage performance that catches her attention for a moment before she wanders toward an intense impact play scene, which surprisingly piques her interest.
She watches with rapt attention as the man strapped to the St. Andrew’s cross is taking a lashing with the bullwhip. His Dom is attentive and slow with the swings, checking in on his sub after every few hits.
“He likes that?” she whispers to me as we walk slowly across the room, away from the two men who seem to be coming to the end of their scene.
I’m not so sure how to answer that question. “In short, yes. But…sometimes it’s not always about what theylike. It helps them to understand themselves better…or to heal from trauma, to build their confidence, to strengthen the communication with their partner. There are a lot of very positive reasons why peoplelikeit.”
“Did being a Dom help you?” she asks, gazing up at me with that sorrowful expression. And I know what she’s referring to. Did it help me to heal from the trauma of losing my family?
How on earth do I explain to her that it didn’t just help me heal? It saved me.
“Yes, it did. What started as just sex quickly became something far more powerful. Even I doubted it in the beginning. I thought being a Dom was all about feeling powerful and superior, but domination is really about control. And it allowed me to control the things I could and accept the things I couldn’t.”
Her gentle blue eyes are focused on my face as she nods with understanding. As we reach a dark wall on the side of the room, she slowly presses her back against it, her blonde brows drawn together in contemplation, and I’m dying to know what is going on in that adorable head of hers.
“Even the pleasure parts?” she asks, and the corner of my mouth twitches upward at the innocence of her question.
Putting my arm against the wall over her head, I press myself closer. “Yes, even those parts. After I lost my family, I lost my purpose. Finding this lifestyle and becoming a Dom gave me back my purpose. As strange as that sounds.”
“It doesn’t sound strange,” she replies, leaning in. “You’re…a giver.” There’s a playful smirk on her face that’s far too tempting. So I avert my gaze, focusing on the wisp of hair in her face as I continue.
“Most Doms take their own pleasure from their subs, and that’s fine. Their subs enjoy it. That’s what their subs need. But the control and power I feel when I can make a person come, not just once, but over and over and over, until it’s like I control their body more than they do…isintoxicating.”
Her bottom lip is pinched between her teeth in that way she so often does, but her eyes are glued to mine, a hint of the red light overhead glinting in the blue irises of her eyes.
“I think that’s healing for me,” I continue. “To take care of someone. To make them feel good. To provide what they need. And to give me a purpose I’ve lost along the way.”
Her throat moves as she swallows and softly nods. “That makes sense.”
Our eyes are locked for a few moments, and I wish I could keep her here forever. In Paris. In this club. Mine.
But that’s impossible, so I’ll savor every sweet moment I do have.
Sliding my hand down her back, I whisper against her ear, “That’s enough for tonight. Let’s go home.”
* * *
Daisy is restless during the entire car ride back to the apartment, and not in a worried, anxious way. She keeps readjusting herself in her seat, her fingers rubbing at the locket around her neck. I have half a mind to ask if she needs to use the restroom, but I refrain.
When she hums a tune and mumbles a little song to herself, I turn her way. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” she replies, looking out the window.
“Were you just writing a song in your head?” I ask, a smile tugging shamelessly on my lips.
With a slightly embarrassed blush in her cheeks, she replies, “Yes.”
“About me?”
