From their vantage point in the bar area, it was easy to see everything—and impossible to look away.
It had been over a year since she’d been in a BDSM club. Over a year since she’d allowed herself to submit.
Cessie shifted, uncrossing her legs only to recross them with the other one on top. There’d been a time when she wouldn’t have crossed her legs. She would have spread her knees and hooked her feet around the legs of the chair to keep them spread, and maybe even tugged up the short ballet-wrap skirt she wore with the corset to give her Dom better access to her sex.
She wished she was the woman she’d been four years ago. Sure of what she wanted and determined to get it. The scariest part of her life—after the MCAT and med school applications of course—was her desire to be a sexual submissive. She hadn’t dared admit that with any of her college or med-school boyfriends, because there was always a chance they’d end up being colleagues and she hadn’t trusted them to respect her if they knew she’d happily obey an order to get on her knees and suck their cock.
There was a large difference between being okay with, and even encouraging, a couple ass slaps during sex and wanting to be held down and spanked or flogged until she hit catharsis.
It had been a stroke of luck that one of her med-school guest lecturers had approached her at the end of the semester and gently asked if she needed help, or if she was a consensual sexual submissive.
Cessie had died several times from shock and horror in the seconds following that question, but the doctor had quickly assured Cessie that she could get Cessie help if needed, and that if it was consensual, she understood and didn’t judge because she herself was a submissive.
While Cessie was stammering out nonsense, the lecturer explained she had seen the red marks left by rope on Cessie’s ankles one day in class, since Cessie always sat in the front row.
Cessie had quietly admitted she was, and that she met up with sketchy pseudo-Doms to get her needs met whenever she was between relationships.
After receiving a very different kind of lecture from the older doctor, the woman had offered to sponsor Cessie to join Las Palmas. If Cessie had known how much the membership was, she would never have agreed, but at the time she’d thought “sponsor” meant vouching for her so she could become a member.
Las Palmas had been a revelation and regular access to Doms who knew what they were doing a relief since she’d stopped worrying her unsolved murder would end up being the subject of a podcast.
And best of all, that’s where she’d met Leon.
Leon sat beside her—relaxed, one arm slung over the back of her chair, his thumb idly brushing her bare shoulder. The touch was a steady, grounding pressure. His face was unreadable as it so often was, but his gaze was sharp and assessing.
She followed his gaze to the scene below. A female submissive —a Little based on what she was wearing— sat on her Dom’s knee. Her hair was in high, glossy pigtails, the ends curling against the delicate slope of her shoulders. She wore a short pink gingham skirt and a cropped white shirt. She bounced up off his knee to go embrace a woman in a short, frilly dress, both of them giggling and hugging.
The Dom cleared his throat, and when the Little with pigtails turned, he crooked a finger. She bounced back over to him and he patted his knee. The Little said something, though from here Cessie didn’t hear what. She was pretty sure it was a protest. The Daddy Dom frown sternly, before pulling her down over his lap.
That knee pat hadn’t been a sign to take a seat, but to lay over his lap for a spanking. Without hurry—and ignoring her kicking feet and wiggling ass—he arranged her over his knee.
Cessie’s breath caught as he raised his hand and delivered a crisp smack to the girl's upturned backside. Another, and another. Each strike was met with a soft gasp, a small wriggle, but no protest. Between each, he rubbed the sting out with large, careful hands, murmuring words they couldn’t hear but that made the girl relax against him.
After ten, he pulled up her skirt, revealing ruffled panties. At twenty he tugged the panties down below her ass.
Cessie felt the heat of need, and weirdly embarrassment, creep up her neck and she glanced sideways at Leon. He wasn’t smiling, but his mouth was soft. He caught her watching him and, without a word, lifted one eyebrow in silent question.
Her stomach flipped.
She looked away from Leon, and away from the spanking. Around them, other scenes played out. Another Dom sat in a high-backed chair with a woman kneeling between his spread legs. He spoke low and firm, tapping her chin until she looked up at him, her wide eyes shining. He slipped a lollipop betweenher lips, slow and deliberate, his hand cradling her jaw as she accepted it with a shy smile.
Further on, a woman in pigtails similar to the first was curled up on a cushioned mat at her partner’s feet, head resting against his thigh, thumb in her mouth. He read from a book, one hand idly stroking her hair. It was shockingly intimate—more intimate, somehow, than the spanking scene, or anything else Cessie had expected.
The scenes blurred together: soft praise, firm correction, quiet commands met with eager obedience.
Daddy Doms and Littles.
She knew Rawhide Ranch was something of a haven for Littles, based on what they’d learned when they’d applied to visit. She longed for what she saw here.
Care. Control. Safety.
The spanking was over, and the Little sat on her Dom’s—no wait, probably her Daddy’s lap—her skirt rucked up around her waist, panties on the floor. He stroked her hair, murmuring low, steady things into her ear. She nestled closer to him, as if seeking shelter.
Cessie realized she was holding her breath.
Leon shifted beside her. She felt it before she saw it—the slight pull of him leaning closer, his voice a low rumble near her ear. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
It wasn’t a question, but a command.
