"Men like him never care about the details. The equipment is just a prop. A way to play the part without understanding what it means."
I turn to face him. "And what does it mean? To you?"
Will is quiet for a moment, his gaze holding mine. The low light catches the angles of his face, the silver threading through his dark hair, the lines around his eyes that speak to years of hard living and harder choices.
"It means responsibility," he says finally. "Every piece of equipment in this room is a tool, and tools can help or harm depending on who's using them. A Dom who doesn't respect that, who doesn't understand that every scene requires preparation, attention, care afterward, that person has no business calling themselves a Dom."
"Care afterward?"
"Aftercare. It's as important as anything that happens during a scene, maybe more." He moves toward one of the seating areas, gestures for me to follow. I sink onto the edge of a leather armchair, and he takes the couch across from me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "When you push someone's limits, when you take them somewhere intense, they need to be brought back down gently. Held. Reassured. The body releases chemicals during intense experiences that can leave someone feeling raw, vulnerable, even depressed when they wear off. A good Dom doesn't just walk away when the scene ends."
"What does it look like? Aftercare?"
"Depends on the person. Some people need to be held, wrapped in blankets, told they did well. Some need water, food, quiet conversation. Some need space to process before they're ready to be touched." His eyes search my face. "The key is knowing your partner well enough to give them what they need, not what you assume they need."
I stare at my hands in my lap, processing this. Craig never talked about aftercare. After our sessions, he'd usually shower, check his phone, go to bed. Sometimes he'd pat my shoulder on his way past, like I was a dog he'd finished playing with. I learned to take care of myself, to wrap myself in blankets and wait for the hollow feeling to pass. I thought that was normal. I thought the emptiness was just part of what I'd signed up for.
"You didn't know," Will says quietly. "About aftercare."
"No." My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. "He never mentioned it. I just thought... I thought feeling empty afterward was the price. For wanting what I wanted."
"That's not your fault. It was his job to know, to teach you, to make sure you understood what a healthy dynamic looks like. He failed you, Gemma. Deliberately and repeatedly." The anger in his voice is controlled but unmistakable. A low currentrunning beneath the calm surface. "What you felt afterward, that emptiness, that's called drop. It happens when the endorphins wear off and your body crashes. Without aftercare, without someone to help you through it, drop can be devastating. Some people describe it as the worst depression they've ever experienced."
"I thought I was broken." The admission costs me something. "I thought there was something wrong with me for feeling so bad after something I'd asked for."
"There's nothing wrong with you. There never was."
The certainty in his voice makes my eyes sting. I blink hard and look away.
"Can I see the rest?" I ask, partly because I want to and partly because I need to move past this moment before it cracks me open.
Will nods and rises. "There's a lower level. Private rooms, mostly. Different configurations for different preferences."
The stairs are at the back of the main room, behind a door that blends seamlessly into the wall. The lower level is cooler, the lighting dimmer, the atmosphere more intimate. The hallway stretches ahead with doors on either side, each one closed.
"Members can reserve these spaces for private scenes," Will explains as we walk. "Some people prefer not to have an audience. Others need specific setups that don't work on the main floor."
He opens the first door, reaches inside to flip a switch. The room beyond is small but not cramped, dominated by a large bed with an ornate iron frame. Restraint points are built into the headboard and footboard, and a cabinet against one wall presumably holds supplies. The color scheme is deep blue and silver, soft lighting casting everything in a warm glow.
"Bedroom configuration," Will says. "Popular for couples who want privacy. The bed's custom-made, designed to handle stress without making noise."
I feel heat creep up my neck at the implications of that last detail. Will's expression remains neutral, professional. Like he's giving a tour of a museum, not showing me rooms designed for activities that make my pulse quicken just thinking about them.
The next room is different. Harder. The walls are a deeper gray, almost black, and the equipment here is more intense. A suspension frame takes up much of the space, chains and carabiners hanging from various points. A cabinet stands open, displaying an array of implements I recognize from my research: floggers in different materials and weights, paddles of varying sizes, things I don't have names for.
"This is for more advanced play," Will says. "Suspension, impact, sensory deprivation. Members have to demonstrate competency and understanding before they're allowed to reserve this room."
"Demonstrate how?"
"Workshops. Supervised sessions. We don't let anyone play with equipment they haven't been trained on. Too much can go wrong if you don't know what you're doing."
I step into the room, drawn toward the suspension frame. The chains are cool under my fingers when I reach out to touch them. The metal is smooth, well-maintained, and the carabiners have the solid weight of professional climbing gear. I wrap my hand around one of the chains, feel its heft, imagine what it would be like to be held by something this strong.
"The safety standards here are higher than some hospitals," Will says from the doorway. "We take this seriously."
"I can tell." I let go of the chains, turn to face him. "It's not what I pictured. Any of it. I thought places like this were seedy. Dangerous. Full of predators looking for victims."
"Some are. That's why we built our own." He leans against the doorframe; arms crossed over his chest. "The community polices itself, for the most part. People who violate consent don't last long. Word travels. But there are always bad actors, people who use the lifestyle as cover for abuse. The only way to protect against that is to create spaces where the rules are clear and enforced."
