“Name?”
“Jensen.”
She pulls out a phone, checks something, and nods. “Need to take a few more laps or—”
“I’m good.”
“All right.”
When she doesn’t immediately move, I experience a moment’s panic that I overlooked a secret passcode or the complex handshake that everyone in the fetish world must learn in order to get into their clubs. After a beat, she shifts over to press a finger against a keypad.
The door opens. A sliver of warm light spills onto the cobblestones.
“I’m Harlow. She/her.” She twists to hold the door for me, in the process baring a black BDSM triskelion tattoo inked into the skin behind her right ear. Not just a bouncer then. Maybe a member too. “Welcome to Off the Cuff.” She grins, momentarily dropping the bouncer persona. “Unless you were actually looking for Pops and Stuff.”
Snorting, I step past her and wait for the door to close with a solid finality before leaning against it and just breathing.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light, which is low, though nowhere near as dark as I’d imagined. I expecteda moody, industrial vibe or a gothic vampire’s den with reds and blacks. Definitely not the warm gray painted brick walls or these artfully tarnished sconces casting an almost-natural light over the wide hardwood steps.
Slowly, I make my way down, expecting the floor to shake under my feet with some heavy bass and an occasional scream or two rising from the dungeon’s depths. If nothing else, I brace myself for a smell.
When I get to the bottom, I look around and decide that this place isn’t seedy or gross at all. It’s really nice. It smells expensive, like something floral and spicy.
There’s a little seating area with a sofa and two big chairs upholstered in a warm cognac, inviting me to come in and get cozy. Beyond it is a desk, where a very pale-skinned platinum blonde sits, wearing a patterned bustier and one of those tiny hats with a veil. A fascinator, I think it’s called. “You joining us tonight?”
“Yes.” I move in, noting the low, tasteful thrum of music, electronic but somehow vintage-sounding. A dark, sensuous tango. “I um, registered for a guest night? And paid online. It’s…” Crap, am I supposed to give my real name? “Uh… Jensen.”
“Rae! I’m Mistress Daff.” She stands up, clapping. “So, so excited to meet you. I did your intake.” She towers at least a foot and a half above me, her thick, perfectly shaped eyebrows animated as she talks. “We’ve got so many Doms in tonight, my friend. It’s a veritable smorgasbord up in here.”
“Really?” My nerves ramp up, buzzing through to the tips of my fingers.
“You’ll have the pick of the litter,” she says with a low giggle.
I blink, feeling almost outside of my body for a second as I imagine what that would look like. Doms everywhere. Big ones, little ones, mean ones, nice ones. On a rock. In a sock. With a—
Whoa. Simmer down, Jensen.
“You know it’s Dom/sub speed dating this evening, right?”
“Oh, wow. No. I didn’t.”
“Ah. Well, you’re in for a treat. Come on, lovely. Let’s get you squared away.”
I hand over my phone—which isn’t allowed inside—along with my jacket and purse. I don’t get a tag or a number in return. This club, apparently, is too posh for that.
“Your intake says you’re a sub, cis, looking for men. Has that changed?”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, no change.”
“Pronouns?” Daff asks.
“Oh. Um. She/her is fine. And you?”
She shows me the back of her hand, where it saysShe/herin red. “Want a stamp?”
“Sure.”
I watch as she presses the ink to my skin, excitement fizzing through me like bubbles.
