The self-doubt is creeping in and it’sloud.
“No play in the communal lounge means it’s a kink-free zone. Kink-free zones are important because…”
“Consent is sexy!” someone yells from the audience, and everyone cheers.
“Exactly. And since my kinks may not be your kinks, and vice versa, it’s important that we keep this area safe forallguests. We have designated rooms for play, and they’re down each of the hallways to my left and right.” He extends his arms and all heads in the room swivel back and forth to locate the two hallways. “Some rooms are communal, and play is allowedto take shape in any way the community consents to… but this space is not one of those.”
He motions to someone just beyond the reach of the lights. A moment later, a man and woman join him on the stage, each of them scantily clad in black. He wears a pair of tight black boxer briefs, and she wears only a sheer, black chemise with matching black panties. They approach the man on stage and he kisses them both on the foreheads, first the man, then the woman, and I lean forward as he strokes them both, lovingly caressing their faces as he whispers between them.
With one last glance toward the audience, the man says, “The exception to this no play rule isthisstage onthesenights.” He smiles wickedly. “Enjoy the show,” then he focuses all of his attention on the two people with him on stage.
And I do the same.
The man and woman embrace and begin to kiss. He continues murmuring to them, but I can’t make out the words, even as I strain to hear them across the room. The kiss begins slowly, sensually, and I find myself leaning forward. Normally, under any other circumstances, I’d be ashamed, embarrassed. I’d look away, maybe even leave.
But here, I feel like looking away would be rude, disrespectful.
Their kiss deepens and heat pools low in my belly. I’ve never understood voyeurism, but now that I’m experiencing it, the allure of witnessing this is hard to ignore.
I don’t know what it says about me, to become aroused by watching others, but—
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” My masked man’s rough, mechanical voice sends a tremor of excitement down my spine and I twist my head to look up at him.
Even though his face is covered in the same full-face leather mask, I know it’s him by the wide set of his shoulders and thetaut, tan skin of his bare chest beneath his open shirt. But there’s something else at play here, a feeling I don’t fully understand. It’s in the way my body relaxed as soon as he was near, as if, on some subconscious level, I trust this man to keep me safe.
It’s foreign and a little strange, but I’m just going to give in to the experience.
I swallow hard as I drink him in, my heart racing at the prospect of actually doing that.Actuallygiving in to him, letting him take the reins.
I don’t know what that means, or what to expect, but I haven’t been able to stop fantasizing about all the ways he could take control since the moment he made that suggestion.
“Hi,” I finally say, and the word comes out no louder than an exhale.
Dominus inclines his head, then settles his warm hand at the nape of my neck, fingers gently curling around. I suck in a breath at the contact, pressing my thighs together as just this man’s presence, his simple touch, sends heat rushing south.
He makes a pleased sound in his throat, then his thumb nudges my jawline and I swivel my head, focusing on the presentation up front. “Is this okay?” he asks, flexing his fingers.
“Yes,” I whisper.God, yes.I want his hands all over me. Touching, teasing…
My masked man strokes the side of my neck as I watch the man on stage caressing the couple. I’m struck by the sensual way he touches them, so intimately, as if they aren’t simply volunteers but somehow a part of him. I’m so lost in the way he touches them as he maneuvers around them that I missed the vibrant swathes of red silk drop down from the dark ceiling above. He’s wrapped them in that bright fabric as he’s circled them, twisting and turning, working their bodies as he wraps them together with artful knots and slow, deliberate movements.
I lean forward and my masked man’s hand travels down my bare back.
I struggled with what to wear tonight, worrying myself into a near-panic over being over- or underdressed, a notion that now feels preposterous while surrounded by scantily clad people in latex, leather, lace, and, for one brave woman, nothing but a dog collar. I’m pleased to have settled on a simple pair of jeans and a silky halter top that drapes in the front and exposes nearly all of my back. I left my hair up in the bun I wore all day at work. I may have fantasized about Dominus pulling out each bobby pin until my waves of hair cascaded down my back…
He strokes up my back, then squeezes the nape, massaging the muscles on either side of my spine. I moan and lean back into his touch, closing my eyes to enjoy the way his deft fingers dig into the tightness of shoulders that spend most of their lives up around my ears. My masked stranger moves to position himself behind me, using both hands now to work my shoulders. I rest my head against his chest, amused by the fact that I’m so willing to allow a complete stranger to touch me—but enjoying his touch far too much to put a stop to it.
Honestly, since the moment he led me into that bathroom that Saturday night a few weeks ago, I knew I wanted to let this man touch me anywhere he damn pleases. Curving his hands around my shoulders, his fingertips dig circles across my chest, massaging the tight muscle there and sending warmth through my veins. Anticipation builds, my breath quickening every time he dips his fingers beneath the draped fabric of my top, teasing at the edges of my breasts.
I swallow hard and he strokes a firm hand up my throat. “Watch,” he murmurs, his face so close to my ear that if I turned, I could kiss—
A voice-disguising modulator.
I bite back a laugh and snap myself back to reality. As delicious as his hands feel on my shoulders, I don’t even know this man. How can I imagine kissing someone I don’t even know? Haven’t evenseen?
I need to get a grip. I’m clearly overworked, and starting to lose my mind. Maybe all these years of dedication have left me so starved for attention that I’m willing to kiss a man I don’t even know. Casually dating, like Mo has suggested I do more than once, might have been a good option, now that I think about it, but hindsight is always twenty-twenty, isn’t it? And honestly, who has the time?
Focusing on the stage, I watch as the man continues wrapping red silk this way and that. The two people he’s tying up together continue to kiss in this slow, deliberate way that makes my toes want to curl inside my boots.
