When the blindfold was finally removed, the illusion shattered. There was no Megan. There wasn’t even Mia anymore; it was just a member of the club’s staff checking in to ensure I was physically intact.
There was no "aftercare" in a session like this. This wasn't a recreational encounter; it was a lesson. And in this lesson, I discovered a terrifying truth: I don't want the simulated version. I want to be utterly destroyed by the real Megan.
I need more of her. Perhaps I only need her.
I need her to want me with the same frantic, singular hunger. But more than that, I want her to burn every bridge and cut every tie that binds her to that old life—so that when we finally collide, there’s nothing left between us but the truth.
#25
" Todo mundo quer um lugar ao Sol, não sou do tipo de ficar na sombra. Vem clarear qualquer dúvida " – Carol Biazin
In my imagination, a BDSM club was something hidden in the shadows of Hell’s Kitchen, tucked behind a greasy Chinese restaurant. But reality had a much more polished face.
When the car finally pulled over, we were standing in front of a premier high-rise on the Upper East Side. I’d fired off a few texts to Kelsey, though given the time difference, I didn’t expect a reply until tomorrow.
We were greeted by a man in a sharp suit who directed us toward what looked like an upscale lounge. It was a sprawling room bathed in earthy tones. The patrons were impeccably dressed, and the air carried the crisp, clean scent of oranges.
I took a seat at one of the tables and was promptly attended to by a waiter. Minutes later, I was nursing a large margarita,letting the sophisticated atmosphere settle over me. That was when a woman with a poised, dignified bearing approached me. She wore an elegant floral dress that billowed softly around her calves.
“Megan Woods, welcome to my sanctuary,” she said, extending a hand. I stood up to greet her, meeting a firm, steady grip. “I’m Charlie, the owner and the Dominatrix in charge of this club. Please, sit. Let’s talk for a moment before I show you around.”
“Thank you for having me. Your bar is beautiful,” I remarked, genuinely impressed by the lack of clichés. She offered a subtle smile and gestured toward the bar. Within seconds, an attendant appeared with a bottle of sparkling wine.
“You didn't come here just for a drink, dear,” Charlie observed, watching me closely. “Kelsey gave me a brief overview of what happened between you two, but I want to hear it in your own words. What brings you to my door?”
I adjusted my posture, taking a deliberate breath to steady myself. “Curiosity. A desire to find a part of myself I've kept locked away... a need to break out of a very rigid routine.”
“And what is your current understanding of the BDSM universe?” she questioned, her tone curious but non-judgmental.
“Only what search engines and case files tell me,” I admitted. “A few years ago, I presided over a case where a Dominatrix went too far during a breath-control session.”
“I remember that case well,” Charlie countered, her eyes narrowing slightly with respect. “You were impeccable. I’ll confess, I was certain you were going to incriminate her. I imagine that experience left you with quite a few prejudices.”
“Of course I was biased. Who wouldn’t be?” I admitted, my voice dropping an octave. “But with Kelsey, it felt natural. I’ve never felt so willing to surrender. I want to learn how to silence my anxiety and this desperate need to be in control.”
“Being aware of what you're trying to suppress is already a massive step,” Charlie noted, her tone encouraging. “I imagine it’s exceptionally difficult for a judge to let someone else dictate what happens to her own body.”
“Exactly...” I sighed, feeling her hands cover mine in a protective, grounding gesture.
“I’ve brought a confidentiality agreement so you understand that your trust here is absolute,” she announced. She released one of my hands to retrieve a folder. It was a straightforward NDA. I signed it without hesitation and slid it back to her.
“Nothing leaves this room?” I asked, seeking final confirmation.
“Nothing. Our hours are strictly scheduled, and the club occupies a private triplex penthouse. You are forbidden from even mentioning this place exists unless you are vetting a potential guest.”
“And how do you maintain such a high caliber of clientele?” I questioned.
“Entry alone costs ten thousand dollars. Scenes, private encounters, voyeurism... everything is billed separately. That price tag tends to filter out the merely curious,” Charlie explained smoothly.
I started to remark on the staggering cost, but she waved me off. “Kelsey is a distinguished member. You don’t need to worry about the logistics. Ask her to explain the details later.”
“I’ll do that,” I promised, watching as Charlie stood up and gestured for me to follow. We walked through corridors that felt less like a dungeon and more like a five-star boutique hotel.
“Any form of masturbation is strictly prohibited in the common areas,” she clarified as we walked. “We have specialized rooms for every type of fetish.”
She paused before a heavy door. “This wing is specifically for exhibitionism. The rooms are designed so that even if no one is actually watching, the participants feel as though they are under a microscope.” She pushed the door open. “Any questions so far, Megan?”
The room was almost entirely empty. Once again, my prejudices flared. I had expected a vampire’s lair with crimson lights and whips lining the walls. Instead, I found a massive bed with a sleek wooden frame and a high-end dressing table.
