Her gaze swept down her profile in the mirror. She sucked in her gut, but she couldn’t hide the pooch in her lower belly that never seemed to go away even when she starved herself and did hundreds of crunches a week. Frowning, she ran her hands over the bane of her existence, her bubble butt.
Okay, so it was more like an extra forty pounds, but at least she had her mother’s height, and her 5’9” frame hid some of it.
Fiona sighed. There she was, like always, heart racing with excitement that tonight could be the night she met her dream dom, but also drowning in self-doubt. Shyness and self-consciousness clung to her like a second skin, especially in the dungeon in the presence of so many near-perfect, drop-dead gorgeous men and the bevy of beauties surrounding them.
That she did so alone didn’t help. She felt especially pathetic coming here by herself. Everyone knew what she was looking for. She needed to be dominated by a man she trusted, who could also compel her submission. Who had the skill and stamina to tie her up, spank, and then fuck her—hell, she didn’tcare in what order—like in all of her fantasies. And she needed it, as much as she needed air to breathe.
Well, maybe not to that extreme, but she wanted it bad.
Her social circle was small, mostly consisting of co-workers. But the children’s rehab clinic where she worked as an occupational therapist, wasn’t exactly overflowing with dominant masters. She’d tried dating services but struggled to tell the vanilla guys from the kinksters. And she didn’t have the nerve to come out and ask them.
What would she say, exactly?I like kittens, long walks on the beach, Italian food, and having my bottom smacked hard whenever I’m naughty—or nice.
She’d turned to the fetish and kink communities online and chatted with a few doms who seemed to have potential. But when it came time to actually meet them, she put them off or chickened out. They, in turn, got impatient with her stalling and moved on.
A club full of like-minded people, all in the lifestyle, had seemed her best bet. But if she couldn’t find someone here, maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. That left her facing an unfulfilled future with a vanilla guy who was nice but just didn’t do it for her.
One last time, she adjusted her dress, tugging the neckline up and the hem down then twisting to double-check her ass crack wasn’t showing. If she sat, it was a sure bet. Leaning in, she touched up her lipstick—deep red, which she could pull off with her coloring—then returned her makeup bag to her locker.
Having stalled long enough, she smoothed her dress in front, serving the dual purpose of drying her damp palms, then left the safety of the ladies’ locker room. Instead of heading for the playroom, which was her usual routine, she made her way to the bar. Her monthly fee included an open bar of which she’d never partaken. That changed tonight.
It was crowded, as usual. As she wound through the throng of people, most of whom she’d seen but had never spoken to, her heels clicked against the polished floor in rhythm with her pounding heart. The dim lighting and bluesy music cast a seductive haze over the room where confident men and stunning women engaged in the age-old ritual of flirting, some absorbed in conversation, others grinding on the dance floor, and several making out in plain sight.
Envious of all of them, Fiona approached the bar and chose one of only two empty barstools. Master Samson, huge and rugged, with a mountain man aura, moved down the bar to take her order.
“Fiona, right?” he asked in his deep, booming voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“You rarely grace us with your presence. What’s the occasion?” His gaze swept the crowded space behind her. “Are you meeting someone?”
She wished. “I just thought I’d mix it up a bit.”
“Is that so? Okay. Lay it on me. What bold, breaking-out-of-a-rut cocktail are you having tonight?”
“A glass of your house red, please,” she replied, expecting the disappointed look he shot her way. “That’s daring for me. I usually order a Diet Coke with lime.”
“Doll face, you gotta drop in more often and let us bar rats help you bust outta your shell. Wine,” he scoffed as he moved away, shaking his head. “What a snooze.”
Instead of delivering it himself, a blonde in a black corset with a tiny cinched waist set her drink in front of her. She didn’t utter a word but flashed her a kind smile before she scurried off to serve someone else.
Fiona held up the wineglass. From the way it caught the light with a flash of color, she suspected it was crystal. Like the gold fixtures in the bathroom, and the heaters beneath the tile floorsthat kept bare feet warm in the playroom, the club lived up to its decadent name, sparing no expense.
After taking a sip, she licked her lips, the crispness making her pucker the slightest bit. Her preference was for sweet red, but rarely did bars have anything but dry selections, so she’d learned to settle. She did that a lot she realized. Her psych professors in school would say it was indicative of low self-esteem, a lack of confidence in her abilities or worth. And wasn’t that the story of her life?
Even here, at Decadence LA, which was supposed to be a sanctuary for her to explore her desires, she found herself settling. Every scene she’d had in the past year started out the same way. The dom approached—and several dommes—but they sought fleeting encounters, mere scenes of pleasure or erotic pain, desiring nothing more, no connection. They were up front about it, at least. Unlike her last boyfriend, who she’d woken to find sneaking out of her apartment in the middle of the night. Brandon, the big, boring jerkwad, hadn’t lasted a week.
What was it about her that said revolving door rather than permanency?
Hearing her name, Fiona tensed suddenly. Without turning, she could see most of the booths and tables reflected in the mirror behind the bar. As she listened to the hum of conversation and laughter, a bluesy cover of Led Zeppelin’s, “I Can’t Quit You Baby,” playing in the background, she tried to pick out the voice she thought she heard. There were just too many people, and none she knew well enough to seek her out.
Deciding she was mistaken, she mentally shrugged it off and took another sip of her wine.
“Fiona! You’re in the lounge!”
She swiveled to see a short, curvy blonde and a gorgeous slender redhead behind her. Valerie, the former, was Master Eric’s wife, who befriended every sub. Esme—such an unusualand beautiful name that suited the stunning, thirty-something submissive—was married to one of the other club masters, although she wasn’t sure which one. What did it say that after twelve months as a member she didn’t know who went with who?
Mostly, she arrived and went directly to subspace. Not the good kind, either. It was what the membership called the waiting area inside the dungeon where the available subs looking for a partner gathered.
