"So, where are you going then?" Lisa asked, taking a massive bite of pizza.
"I’m headed to Charlie’s club for a private session."
Lisa practically choked, coughing into her napkin while Sarki shot the camera a look of pure disapproval. "Megan, that’s what... the fourth time this week? You don’t need a club; you need to go back to therapy."
"I have to go. Enjoy the game," I said evasively and ended the call.
I returned to the bench and finished the job. In just over an hour, I handed down a guilty verdict, read the sentencing with cold precision, and declared the session closed.
Donald was waiting for me, the perfect image of a devoted fiancé. We headed back to my apartment together, but the moment the door closed, the mask slipped. I told him I was going out.
"Have fun, Don," I said, kissing his cheek. He hugged me tight, he was probably exhausted from months of playing my therapist and hearing me pine for Kelsey.
"I'll tell you how my date went... tomorrow," he laughed, tilting my chin up. "And I hope you’re tired enough by the end of the day to come see me so we can eat chocolate doughnuts."
"Your wish is my command," I forced a smile, and he let out a loud laugh as he departed.
I rushed through a shower, dressed in something dark and anonymous, and drove to the club. The D.C. branch was even more clandestine than the one in New York, a fortress of discretion where the bar and the private rooms were completely isolated.
The hostess greeted me with a silent nod and handed me a sleek latex mask. It covered my forehead and nose, leaving only my eyes exposed.
For the first time all day, I felt I could finally breathe.
"Ma'am, this is your Domme for today."
The hostess pointed toward a tall, red-haired woman wearing a mask identical to mine. For a fleeting, heart-stopping second, my breath hitched, but the posture was wrong. The energy was hollow. I lowered my head, allowing her to take my hand and lead me to a secluded booth at the bar.
"I prefer to be called Mistress," she stated, her voice devoid of the velvet authority I craved. "What are your kinks?"
"Drowning, anal, shibari, and asphyxiation, Mistress," I recited, the words feeling like a grocery list rather than a confession of desire.
"Gagball with spanking?" I nodded silently. "I enjoy foot worship as well. Is that an issue?" I shook my head, even though the thought did nothing for me.
"Safeword?"
"Cinnamon."
The session was an utter failure.
It wasn't just bad; it was amateur. My jaw ached from the gag, she ignored the agreed-upon count for the flogger, and she forced me into foot worship for nearly half an hour until my dignity felt more bruised than my skin. I left the club exactly as I had entered: frustrated, empty, and aching for a ghost.
Back at the apartment, I tried to funnel my rage into my work, buried under stacks of legal precedents and nomination strategy.
But the silence of the rooms always drew me back to the shower. I leaned my forehead against the cold tile, the spray of water hitting my back as I used the wand vibrator, closing my eyes to conjure her.
Every touch, every bite, the way she used to steal the very air from my lungs—it was a haunting. I cursed her name, over and over, a jagged litany of resentment that peaked the moment I came and lingered long after the water turned cold.
By the second month, my life had become a high-stakes loop of political theater. I attended lunches and galas with men who had spent years denying me a seat at the table, all while my treacherous gaze scanned every room for a glimpse of Kelsey.
I knew she was avoiding me, calculating our orbits to ensure we never crossed paths, yet I couldn't stop looking.
"Calm down, Megs," Donald murmured, clinking his glass of sparkling wine against mine at yet another fundraiser. "This time apart is probably exactly what you need to clear your head."
"I don't understand, Don," I whispered, my grip tightening on my glass. "Is it really this hard to find someone who actually fits?"
"My love, you’re talking to a man who genuinely enjoys your company, who loves taking you to dinner... of course it’s hard to find someone who fits," Donald said, his voice a soothing balm against my jagged nerves. "It’s rare to find someone who accepts your limits and respects the weight of who you are."
"The sessions have been terrible, Don. Truly, terrible."
