"Sit down," I say. "This isn't a quick conversation."
She hesitates, then moves to the chair across from my desk. The lamp on my desk catches the angles of her face, the sharp line of her jaw, the shadows beneath her eyes that speak to sleepless nights. She's beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with polish or presentation. Raw. Real. The kind of beautiful that makes you ache without understanding why.
I look away before she can catch me staring.
"The Forge grew out of the Brotherhood itself," I begin, keeping my voice even, clinical. "Most of us had interests that didn't fit neatly into the mainstream. We were already part of a larger community, people who shared those interests, but there wasn't anywhere local that felt safe. So we built one."
"Interests." She tests the word. "You mean BDSM."
"Among other things. Power exchange. Kink. The broad umbrella that covers a lot of different practices, most of which the general public doesn't understand and tends to fear."
"And the bar is a front?"
"The bar is a bar. Legitimate business, separate books, separate clientele. The Forge operates through the back, members only, completely private. We built it so people could explore safely, with clear rules and protocols that protect everyone involved."
Her eyes narrow slightly, and I can almost see her cataloging, comparing what I'm saying to whatever she's read and whatever she's experienced. Looking for discrepancies. Looking for lies.
"What kind of rules?"
"Consent is paramount. Nothing happens without explicit agreement from everyone involved. We use safewords, and thosewords are absolute. The moment someone says red, everything stops. No exceptions, no negotiations, no pressure to continue."
"Craig used safewords." The words come out flat, stripped of emotion. "He made a big deal about them when we first started. Said they were proof that what we did was healthy and consensual."
"Did he honor them?"
The silence that follows is answer enough. Her jaw tightens, and something dark passes through her eyes before she controls it.
"At first. Then he started saying I was using them wrong. That I was stopping things too soon, that I didn't trust him enough, that a real submissive wouldn't need a safeword because she'd know her dominant would never actually hurt her." She swallows hard. "Eventually I stopped using them. It was easier than dealing with the aftermath."
The rage that floods through me is familiar by now. I've felt it every time she's revealed another piece of what that bastard did to her. This time, though, it comes with something else. A cold clarity that helps me keep my voice steady when I respond.
"That's not dominance. That's abuse."
"I know that now." Her voice cracks slightly. "I didn't then. He was very good at making me believe that the problem was me. That I was the one doing it wrong, wanting the wrong things, failing to be what he needed."
"The difference between dominance and abuse isn't complicated." I lean forward, needing her to understand this. "Dominance is about trust. It's about creating a space where someone can surrender control because they know, absolutely and without question, that their wellbeing is the top priority. A good Dom earns that trust through consistency, through respect, through honoring every boundary and limit their partner sets.They don't tear those boundaries down. They don't make someone feel broken for having them."
"And submission?"
"Submission is strength, not weakness. It takes more courage to surrender control than to take it. The act of trusting someone that completely, of making yourself vulnerable in that way, that's a gift. Anyone who treats it like a right instead of a privilege doesn't deserve to receive it."
Gemma is quiet for a long moment. Her hands have unclenched in her lap, and some of the tension has bled out of her shoulders.
"That's not what he told me."
"He was wrong. And he knew he was wrong. Men like him use the language of this lifestyle to justify what they were going to do anyway. They hide behind words like 'dominant' and 'submissive' because it gives them cover, makes their abuse look like something consensual. But it's not. It was never what we do here."
"How can I tell the difference?" The question comes out stripped bare, desperate. "If I couldn't see it with him, how do I know I'll see it next time?"
"You educate yourself. You take it slow. You find people who've been in the community long enough to recognize the warning signs, and you listen when they tell you something's off." I pause, weighing my next words carefully. "And you give yourself permission to walk away the moment anything feels wrong. Not later, not after you've convinced yourself you're overreacting. The exact moment."
She nods slowly, absorbing this. "The Forge. The people there. Are they safe?"
"As safe as I can make them. We vet every member thoroughly before they're allowed through the door. Background checks, references from people we trust, an interview processthat weeds out anyone who sets off alarm bells." I pause, considering how much detail to give her. "The process takes months. Potential members have to be sponsored by someone already in the community, someone who'll vouch for their character and their understanding of consent. Then there's a probationary period where they can attend social events but not play parties. They're watched, evaluated. If anything feels off, if anyone raises concerns, that's the end of it."
"And if they pass?"
"Then they get full access. The main room, the private spaces, the equipment. We have monitors during events, experienced members who keep an eye on scenes and step in if something looks wrong. There's a house Dom on duty every night we're open, someone with the authority to shut anything down." I meet her eyes. "We're not perfect. No community is. But we've built something I'm proud of."
