Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 66074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Clarice took care of letting whoever is scheduled to open tonight know that Seth and I would be here and in the middle of a scene when they arrived, so we won’t be disturbed inside the private playroom that’s been under a little construction today while I kept him distracted at the museum. All I told Seth once we got in the car after saying our goodbyes at Doc’s was that our last stop for the night would be Club Alias and to head there right then, so we could get inside and have a little alone time before everyone showed up.
He leads me up the tall, narrow staircase until we reach the top, the sprawling club before us—taking up the whole second story of the building that spans the entire block—in total darkness. Depending on where you’re at inside Club Alias, you could be naked and screaming in ecstasy while standing right above the Imperium Security office, Crystal’s former workout studio, a fine arts gallery, or a boba shop, and no one below you would ever know, since the whole second level is a hundred percent soundproof.
My heart gallops behind my ribs as Seth reaches over to the pony wall and flips on just enough switches that the public space glows softly. Visible now is the dance floor, the two bars on either side of it, several platforms used during scenes put on by exhibitionists for anyone who wants to watch, and the DJ booth centered on a stage meant for the occasional live musical performance.
Everything is interspersed with tables and chairs, dark and sexy couches upholstered in a material that is both pleasant on the skin but incredibly easy to sanitize and wipe clean between uses, and what seem like random gymnastics mats. That is, until you look way up in the rafters and spot the glinting metal rings that can be lowered and raised with a remote control, which members are able to scan out. Metal rings a willing human’s body can be leashed to by a Rigger—the person who does the tying during rope bondage—if they’ve passed the skills test given by none other than my husband, known only by his Dom name, Seven, inside this sacred space.
And finally, the club’s newest additions to the main public area, a few alcoves with rows of spanking benches, St. Andrew’s crosses, and what look like pergolas, but instead of being covered in fragrant flowering vines, it’s colorful rope that weaves its way through the sturdy wooden beams each night. They were erected for those rope bunnies—the people on the receiving end of riggers’ skills—who enjoy something more stationary than what being suspended from one of the rings offers.
Personally, I could just sit curled up on one of the couches all night and watch the couples who play on the rings, and I’d be perfectly content. It’s mesmerizing, both the tying of the intricate knots and the interaction between the rigger, also known as a rope top, and their rope bottom. It’s so intimate, and yes, makes my temperature rise with embarrassment… but more so, arousal. Knowing they wouldn’t be doing it in the main area unless they wanted to be watched helps smother the uncomfortable feeling I normally get from seeing something so… sexually charged.
I haven’t taken the step of trying it out myself, even though my husband has offered countless times, catching me so often just staring with my mouth hung open while a rope bunny swings high above our heads and contorts their body into whatever positions their specific tie allows. And the times he’s snuck up on me while I’ve been alone, quietly enjoying the show, when he’s ordered me to not move as he angles his body so no one can see mine between him and the couch. He knows it would ruin the moment for me otherwise. His hand then wandering up my skirt one night or down my leggings another, until his fingers reach the slickness we both knew he’d find between my thighs.
So much praise. So many words and kisses and caresses of his approval that I allowed myself to be a voyeur, giving in to my desire to watch those who crave to be watched.
It’s all so theatrical, awe-inspiring, and I think maybe one of the reasons I haven’t taken him up on it—besides the obvious, that I’m not an exhibitionist, since we could easily try it privately—is because I know I’d never look as cool as them. I’d be too focused on the fact that I might look awkward and stupid, and on top of that, I’d be stuck there, unable to run and hide, even if it were just my beloved Dom observing me.
But I’m on a path of remedying those negative thoughts, and maybe someday I might even have the confidence to be one of those brave souls putting on an arousing show for everyone to see. Until then, I just want to be able to impress one person, one man, the one I belong to, without feeling any sense of hesitation.