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Behind the door of Dylan’s office was the club’s security system. At the start of every day, Dylan flipped on the wall of monitors to verify that each and every camera recorded the night’s events. It was one of the many tasks to check off. With a shuffle out the door, she trotted off toward the roaring vacuum cleaner in La Prizonye.
The stage took center position in the room, flanked by five tiered rows of café tables and chairs on the long-ended sides and ten rows of stadium seating cradling the shorter end. The layout provided an optimal view for all guests, no matter where they sat. They set the stage with an assortment of stockades, pillories, and cages for the public spectacle of that evening’s show, including a double-sided Saint Andrew’s cross. It was Lady Katrina’s signature piece, which allowed her to dominate two submissives positioned on each side of the cross for a tantalizing display.
She hopped onto the stage, visualizing the sight of herself with a willing sub fastened to the stockade. Dylan didn’t strive to be a performance artist like Lady Katrina but to have the poise to command without shaky hands. She might have had an arrogance about her, but when the clothes came off, Dylan became jelly.
Maxi’s advice to let go finally sank in, and she knew it was time to do just that. Trust was the fundamental aspect of BDSM, and it worked both ways, whether in the dominant or submissive role. But for Dylan, trust wasn’t something she gave to just anyone. It took almost a year for her to let Maxi into her world, even more so when she was younger with Lucy, her best friend. In this gluttonous world of Adytum, where elite women spent the night indulging in the sins of the flesh, there wasn’t time to cultivate mutual trust. There were no limits or boundaries when someone walked in with debauchery on their mind. It was all part of the allure of Adytum.
“Planning to let Lady Katrina choose you as her victim?” Maxi’s voice reverberated off the art déco walls as if booming out from the speaker system.
She shifted her gaze to the entryway of the auditorium and watched as Maxi strutted down the aisle. Dressed for the evening in a formfitting, Bordeaux-colored bodysuit with a zipper that ran from the neck down and between her legs, Maxi exuded an air of power and wealth. She was someone who made knees tremble and buckle, not just during sex but solely by her presence. Dylan had to admit there wasn’t a shortage of women who made her heart skip a beat. Maxi was one of those women.
She didn’t answer until Maxi was on stage, stepping next to her. “As much as I love watching Madame at work, I’m not willing to be part of the show.”
“It’s a shame. She has a crush on you.” Maxi fixed the collar of Dylan’s pressed white shirt, flicking two buttons open so her cleavage showed from under the fabric. “Be proud of these tits. We all want to see them.”
She buttoned up her shirt again, not the type to flaunt her inner sensuality. Dylan favored the gallant attire of an Edwardian esquire with tailored suits, knotted ties, and an accompanying hat. “As much as I enjoy being the object of someone’s affections, I prefer being the one controlling the scene, not submitting to being a chew toy.”
“Ah, a kindred spirit indeed. If you weren’t so damn charming, I might just throw you to the wolves and let those rabid lesbians eat you alive. But alas, I’ll keep you under my wing. Shall we welcome our guests?” Maxi’s playful demeanor never failed to hold a kernel of truth, often bearing unspoken honesty within its teasing façade.
When the heels of Lady Katrina strode onto the stage with her jet-black wig in place, the insinuations of both Mistresses constricted Dylan’s airways like a noose. The thick tension gripped her tightly, intensified by the press of that obsidian fingernail against her cheek once more. Dylan’s lungs ached for both fresh air and the doors of the club to swing open. “Absolutely. Let’s ring the dinner bell for Adytum,” said Dylan as she jumped from the stage and out of the arena to welcome the guests.
Chapter 3
“No fucking way!”
Ari twisted her neck and darted her eyes to her best friend, Billie Pyle, because she wasn’t one to use profanity unless all other descriptions failed to express her concise sentiments. The idea of going undercover in an elusive sex club for rich lesbians deserved the vivid language. She, too, had a hard time wrapping her head around the concept, and it had been almost six hours since she had agreed to the job.
“Yup. One thousand dollars and another four grand when I finish the story,” Ari said as she unwrapped the frozen pizza they were having for dinner.
“What’s the angle they’re looking for? There’s nothing illegal about sex clubs.” She and Billie had been friends for as long as Ari could remember. She’d always been there for her, and while not the most levelheaded person, she always seemed to go along with most of her crazy schemes. This might have been the craziest one to date.
After shoving the pepperoni pizza they smothered in extra cheese into the oven, she stood erect, her chest puffed as if she were a superhero ready to right the wrongs of the most corrupt city in the nation. “There is if they’re going beyond the boundaries of consent. Sex workers have rights, too, and if these people think that just because they have money, they can take advantage of hardworking women, they have another thing coming. The truth needs to come out, and their members exposed for their sick depravity.”
That stance came off sounding more confident than Ari had intended. She wasn’t that confident about the job, and as much as Terry touted her experience of living on the street with transgendered youth, this was an entirely different beast. One much more dangerous given the huge disparity between the wealthy and the women resigned to using sexual favors to make a living.
Billie seemed to have the same trepidation about it as she did. “Are you sure you want to get involved in something like this? It sounds risky and a little dangerous.”
By comforting Billie about the job, she hoped to ease her own worries. Ari leaned back in the chair and took a sip of amber courage disguised as the pale lager in her hand. “Any type of investigative journalism involves risk. Hell, you didn’t like me sleeping on the streets a year ago, but I did it and I was fine. Thanks to the awareness and activism my article generated, there are now a ton of youth services available to help those kids. This is gonna be just like that: an opportunity to make a real impact. If there are vulnerable people being taken advantage of, it’s important to shed light on it and maybe even shut down the club.”
“A club I am pretty sure is owned by the mafia. Harmless teens? Mafia?” With a twist of facial expressions, Billie teetered her hands in the air like a scale weighing the risks versus benefits. “I’m more comfortable with you sleeping on the streets than heading to a sex club with the city’s most notorious famous faces.”
So was Ari, but she had to hold her firm position on taking the job, or she’d regret her decision and will herself to withdraw from the opportunity. “I get your concern. I do. But I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I believe it’s worth the risk. Besides, I’m curious about what goes on behind closed doors of a sex club, especially one catering to just women.”
“I’ll tell you. A lot of tongue baths.” Billie burst into laughter. They were both fans of the female sex, and both were single. Perhaps it was Billie’s audacious analogies that deterred potential admirers. Yet beneath her brash exterior lay a beautiful soul, often overshadowed by her direct wit. This unfiltered sarcasm was one of Billie’s charming traits, which Ari found refreshing.
The thought of kindling a different type of relationship had never crossed their minds, not even as a passing topic of discussion. Ari’s romantic history had been a revolving door of partners, none of whom stayed beyond a few fleeting months. The lengthiest involvement had stretched to a mere half a year, at which point she considered moving in with the woman. It was Billie who, with her characteristic bluntness, laid bare the reality: the woman was a cokehead. The truth had been staring Ari in the face all along, like bold letters etched on the wall.
Again, Billie wasn’t one to hold back. “Wait? Are you thinking about joining in on the festivities?”
“I’m applying for a job, not a membership. I’ll be a hostess or something like that. I won’t be spreading my legs for some rich weirdos.” Ari’s motives remained uncertain, whether she sought to comfort Billie or assuage her own doubts. A delicate, rosy hue tinged her innocent features, igniting her complexion much like it had when she’d experienced the blush of losing her virginity.
The truth differed from what she expressed to her friend because the folklore surrounding Adytum had taken on this mythical shape, much like witches and vampires, or even UFOs. Tales from friends of friends entwined with larger-than-life depictions of giant orgies with harems of women. Who knew if they were true or not? Though the one common denominator that always seemed to find its way into the fairy tales was that Adytum was all about BDSM. It was that last part that intrigued Ari, so much so that she was afraid to mention it to Billie.
“Speaking of rich weirdos ... have you looked them up online?”
“That was on my agenda for tonight,” Ari said, telling another lie. She had already done that at the coffee shop, and it was the titillating display that made her agree to the job.
Ari and Billie huddled around the laptop, clutching their beers as they waited for the website to load. As they watched, the barbed feminine logo grew larger on the screen, swirling its cross around and around, causing a hypnotic dizziness that locked their eyes onto the screen. When the logo paused, it faded away, and a video took its place and played across the screen.
