* * *

Because they were still full from dinner, they skipped the buffet offering laid out along the far wall in the table area.

“Since it’s not busy yet, let me take you on a tour,” he said. They started up in the loft area, where no one was playing yet. As they climbed the stairs, he explained the club’s rules as well.

“No pictures can be taken in the club without permission from the DMs first. And even then only if no one else is in the background. No one touches people or their things without permission. If someone says red, their play stops immediately unless they’ve talked to a DM ahead of time and arranged a different safeword if they’re going to do edge play. Violating those three rules is the easiest and fastest way to get kicked out and banned.”

“Seems pretty straightforward. Is that a problem, usually?”

“No, not normally.” He turned to her when they reached the top of the stairs. “But in a lot of the BDSM fiction out there, one of the favorite tropes vanilla writers use is the innocent female submissive who somehow accidentally stumbles into a club and then some big, bad Dom slaps a collar around her neck and starts to play with her despite her protests.”

“Really?” She thought about Lydia the gatekeeper in the lobby who nearly didn’t let her in. “Just accidentally stumbles in, huh?”

“You wouldn’t believe how many newbies honestly worry that might happen to them. Sure, if you go to a fetish night held at a bar you might get hit on like you would anywhere else, but someone tries to grab you against your will, you just scream and bouncers take care of them. In all my years in the lifestyle I’ve never seen someone forced to play in public against their will with no one helping them. Now I have seen asshats get grabby and get kicked out. Helped escort a few of them out when I’ve been DM’ing. But it happens far less frequently than you’d believe if you read the fiction.”

“But you have seen some people forced to play?”

“No. One time I saw a scene where the bottom called red and the Top didn’t stop. DMs stepped in to end the scene. If some douche doesn’t respect a safeword and doesn’t stop when a bottom calls a scene, that’s not BDSM. That’s assault. And it’s prosecutable.”

From up in the loft area, they could view the entire space. She also realized Loren, Tilly, and Leah had disappeared. “Where did they go?”

“They probably went to change out of their street clothes. Unless they’re coming straight here from home, they usually change after they get here.”

She looked at him, dressed as if going to work. “Do you change clothes?” she asked.

“Nope. This is what I wear.”

“I thought Doms like to wear leather and stuff.” In fact, several of the male Dominants in the club were dressed in either leather pants, a leather vest, or both in some cases. Many of them were dressed either all in black, or in some combination of black and red.

He nodded. “Some do, yes. But leather is hot and hard to move around in and I’m more comfortable in my jeans and a regular shirt. I’m not a leather kind of Dom when it comes to practicality.” He smiled. “I’m much more a denim kind of Dom.”

Shayla arched an eyebrow at him. “A denim Dom, huh?”

He nodded. “Better than a sweating-my-ass-off Dom.” He let her go down the stairs first. “Any questions so far?”

She gave silent thanks for opting to wear flats and not heels tonight. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of questions. I just have no idea where to start asking.”

“This is why, as you can tell, I’m not particularly fond of most BDSM fiction,” he said. “Not if it’s written by someone who hasn’t done plenty of research first, or who isn’t in the lifestyle. I’ve had several women approach me this year with completely unrealistic expectations based on their choice in reading material. One of them actually got pissed at me when I laughed at her.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Shayla turned to him. “Why’d you laugh at her?”

“She informed me that I would help her duplicate a scene from one of her favorite books, and that if I was a ‘real’ Dominant, I would do it.”

“You didn’t like that, huh?”

He grinned. “I suppose no one had told her that while subs might set the limits, the Doms make the rules. She spent the night kneeling on the floor while I talked to friends. When she got pissed off at me for not doing what she wanted, I laughed and told her she must not be a ‘real’ submissive then.” He smirked. “The irony was lost on her.”

He showed her around and explained the different equipment to her. Some she recognized from her online research, and some she didn’t.

Some of it looked more dangerous and painful in person than it had on her computer.

He also introduced her to quite a few people. Everyone was friendly and more than a few offered to answer any questions she might have. She accumulated FetLife IDs and e-mail addresses at an incredible rate.

I can see I’m going to have to join that site.

This seemed to be the magic hour, because the slow trickle of people arriving turned into a flood as several dozen entered the space within about fifteen minutes. Tony led Shayla back to the area with the sofas to retrieve his bag.

“Come on,” he said, leading her toward one of the far tables in a corner. He laid the bag flat on the floor and unzipped it. When he opened it, she realized it was completely full of different implements. Paddles, floggers, riding crops, canes, even what looked to be a whip or two.

And other things, like vibrators.

She shivered.

“I normally carry my canes and riding crops in a blueprint tube,” he said. “I didn’t bring it with me tonight, though. I left most of them at home.”

“How many canes do you need?” she asked.

He laughed. “As many as it takes.”

* * *

Tony watched her face as he showed her everything, explaining each item’s use and the differing sensations it provided.

“What is this?” She held it up.

“That’s a silicone tasting spoon.” He took the dense, double-ended orange cooking implement from her and smacked the cupped side against his palm. Its deceptive heft always surprised people.

She frowned. “Tasting spoon? As in something you cook with?”

He smiled. “Yep. Get some of my best toys at a cooking supply store at the flea market. This baby might not look like it’d hurt, but if you use the convex side of it and hit hard enough with it, it’ll put bruises on a person.” He rummaged around in his bag and found a pair of long, bamboo spoons. “These are great as a matched set.” He tapped out a rhythm against his thigh. “You can drum with them.”

That got a smile out of her. “Sadistic drumming, huh?”

“The best kind.” He laid those aside and picked up another matched pair of items.

“And what the heck are those?” she asked as he handed the metal objects to her. A little less than a foot long each, the handles branched out into lots of wire arms topped with metal balls on the ends.

“Cooking whisks. You know.” He mimed mixing something in a bowl.

She tested them in the air, a look of doubt on her face.

“Go ahead and try them on your leg.”

She did. “Doesn’t seem like they would hurt very much.”

“They won’t. Unless you hit someone wrong with them, like smack them on the nose or poke them in the eye or something. Not every implement is meant to inflict pain. Some of them are meant to create a certain sensation. These are great along the back and shoulders, or along the arms. Because they are so light, you don’t have to worry about damaging someone’s spine or shoulder blades. And if they’re cold, it’s another sensation. Or they can be used in a transition phase of play, either stepping up or down the intensity. Or even just as a massage.” He took them back, stood, and stepped behind her. “May I?”

“Okay.” She turned a little in her seat to give him access to her back and shoulders.

He gently drummed up and down her back and across her shoulders. He stopped when he noticed her eyelids slowly dropping shut. When he stepped away, she reacted almost startled, as if she’d really been enjoying it. “Like that.”

She blinked, looking up at him. “That felt pretty good.”

He put them away and noted how she looked moderately disappointed. “Like I said, not everything is meant to induce pain. There are plenty of implements that, depending on how they’re used, can bring pleasure or pain. That’s another common misconception, that all Tops are heavy sadists, and all bottoms are masochists.”

“So you’re not a sadist?”

“Oh, I’m absolutely a sadist. But the person I’m playing with has to want that kind of play. Or want to take it to please me when I’m topping them. I have no desire to force someone to do something against their will. That’s sociopathic behavior, not sadism. I can grab a cane and the heaviest pain slut in the room and probably have them code after three hits. Is that a good thing? No. But I can just as easily get my sadistic jollies by making someone dress up in something they hate to wear as I can by topping them in a scene. A scene is like a dance. There are many different steps, many stages. Everyone has their own way of playing. What might look like a vicious beating to the uneducated is most likely a carefully choreographed routine on the part of the Top.”

“That makes sense.”

“A good example is Landry over there. When he plays with Cris, he beats the ever-loving crap out of him. And it’s not that Cris is a masochist, either. But Landry is a heavy sadist. Cris derives satisfaction out of pleasing Landry. He also takes pride in pushing himself physically to the limits of his endurance. So while he doesn’t enjoy the pain, he enjoys the act of taking it.