Page 32 of The Master
“Show?” I asked, already more comfortable. With his arms around me, no one could touch me. I was safe. And since I was safe, I could be curious.
“Club Privé is the city’s most elite and exclusive BDSM club.” His voice was conversational, as if he was simply discussing the weather with me. “The couple who own it, Carrie and Gavin, are good people. They’ve made sure this place is safe, discreet.”
“For the wealthy select, right?”
He smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Most people who have a VIP membership are wealthy, yes. But they have options for those unable to afford the full VIP treatment.”
“I’m guessing one of those options is for a non-member to come as a guest.”
“Correct.”
I didn’t ask the question that popped into my head because I didn’t want to know the answer. It was okay if he’d brought other women here. There wasn’t any reason why he shouldn’t have. This place was important to him – I could see that on his face – but it wasn’t like his home. He was free to explore his desires here, among like-minded people, and I had no doubt that intimacy could be part of this, but it didn’t have to be.
“There are rooms here,” he continued, “playrooms of all kinds. Members can rent them.”
The lights dimmed briefly, then again a beat later, reminding me of the way theaters would flicker the lights to let people know intermission was coming to an end. The pulsing music dropped, and a murmur ran through the patrons. Something was coming, and the regulars knew the signs.
“Watch the stage,” Nate said, motioning toward a raised dais in the center of the room. “Relax and enjoy the show.”
Show. He’d mentioned a show, but I’d forgotten about it.
Two people walked up onto the stage, both wearing scarlet filigree masks. One was a woman, petite, with short white-blonde hair. The man following her was tall with dark hair that gleamed red under the lights. His muscular torso was bare, and the boxer briefs he wore left little to the imagination. Her dress fit her like a second skin, stopping just under her ass cheeks. They were quite striking together.
The masks kept anyone from seeing their faces, but something about them seemed familiar. As if I’d seen them somewhere around the city before. Without context, it was difficult to tell. I didn’t think too hard about it, though. If they were going to do what I thought they were going to do, I didn’t actually want to know their names. Maybe, one day, I’d be comfortable enough with how I felt about this sort of thing that I could talk to people in this setting and then see them in the real world without skipping a beat.
That wasn’t today, though. Today, I’d watch.
When they reached the middle of the stage, the house lights dimmed, and a spotlight focused on the couple. A light round of applause seemed to start the show. The woman removed a cloth belt from around her waist, and to my surprise, bound the man’s wrists behind his back.
“He’s usually the Dominant,” Nate whispered in my ear. “But sometimes, she likes to be the one in charge. They’ve been married for a few years now. They’re friends with the owners.”
The man sank to his knees in front of his wife, his head tipped back so that they could see each other’s faces, and I suddenly realized that what they were doing wasn’t for us. It was all for them. The fact that an audience would enjoy the performance was merely a side-benefit of what they needed from each other tonight.
This place was more than somewhere to discuss mutual interests. It was a place where people could have their needs met without judgment. Where they could express themselves however they wished, and as long as it was safe and consensual, it was not only permitted but encouraged.
She pulled the hem of her dress up, revealing a tiny thong that covered very little. When she ran her hand through her husband’s hair, I had a pretty good idea what she was going to do next.
I wasn’t wrong.
She pulled him to her, the hand in his hair acting as a guide and a balance. The angle he was at kept anyone from actually seeing skin, but the moan we could all hear over the music left no doubt about what he was doing. Her head fell back, her fingers tightening and relaxing in his hair as he skillfully brought her to orgasm.
I joined in the applause automatically, not giving my brain time to overthink whether or not I felt awkward about clapping for a sex show. As I did it, though, something in me flipped. This wasn’t some sordid thing where desperate people had to perform intimate acts for enough cash to pay rent. The two on stage were a married couple, members volunteering to do something that gave them personal satisfaction.
And they weren’t done.
The woman helped her husband lay down on his back, his hands underneath him in what must’ve been an uncomfortable position. As she went to her knees, one on either side of his head, Nate’s hand slid down my thigh to the hem of my dress, fingers brushing against bare skin before moving between my legs. The blonde’s hips began to rock back and forth, her dress covering most of the man’s face as she rode it. I caught my breath, equal parts fascinated and turned-on, then shivered as Nate’s fingers brushed against the damp crotch of my panties.
“Like what you see?” he asked.
When I nodded, he scraped his teeth against the shell of my ear and pressed his fingers against me. I grabbed his arm, unsure if I wanted to ask him to stop or beg him to put his fingers inside me, but I said neither.
The blonde came with another cry and then slid down the man’s body until she was straddling his waist. Their eyes met, and I knew that, for them, no one else existed. She reached beneath her, and the catch of his breath was enough to tell us that she held his cock. When she sank down on him, her entire body shuddered while his tensed.
I could imagine his frustration, unable to touch, to control. His pleasure entirely in his lover’s hands. I might not have been able to know what it was like to be a man in that position, but I knew what it was to be a woman, and I doubted there was much difference besides the obvious.
Nate’s fingers moved in slow circles, the soft cotton of my panties creating a different level of friction than when I touched myself. I was aware of my pulse racing, the rush of air in and out of my lungs, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the couple on the stage.
The man’s hips were jerking now despite the clear effort he was making to hold back. Low, guttural sounds mixed with his wife’s breathy moans, fascinating me. I’d never been one to watch porn, but I knew, statistically, that most of the noises made were fake. I’d once read that most women in porn never orgasmed during filming. There was no doubt in my mind that these two weren’t faking anything.
