“I still can’t believe you call him Lil T. He’s huge!”
“Little refers to his age, not his size. And he shares the same first name as the CEO, which got very confusing.”
Valerie was a perfect package, beauty and class, despite the leather corset and skirt, which were all wrong for her. If she were his, he would dress her in satin and lace, and in soft colors, a dusty rose, virginal white, or a subtle pale pink, to match the blush in her cheeks. The mental image fired his blood and stirred his already semirigid cock, which was the state he’d been in since first laying eyes on her.
His phone buzzed. Checking the text message, he frowned—trouble in the dungeon needed his immediate attention. He signaled to Samson.
“I’m sorry, Valerie. I mentioned I was on duty.”
When the bartender stood before them, Eric tipped his head her way. “Will you keep the wolves at bay until I return? I’m needed in the playroom.”
“Any other night would be no problem, boss, but Terry called in sick, and Marcia is late. I’m by myself and already in the weeds. I’m afraid I couldn’t give her my full attention.” He gave her a once-over before glancing under the bar. “My crate is empty. I could put her in there in a pinch.”
Val leaned forward and peered over the bar top. Her squeak of alarm was a clear sign she had located the barkeep’s three-foot-high slave cage situated among the shelves stacked with glasses. She sat back, shaking her head vehemently and giving him a pleading look.
“Newbies,” Sam muttered. “There’s no telling what will set them off. With some, being naked, restrained to a cross, and flailed with a flogger doesn’t faze ’em, but the very idea of being tucked safely away in a gilded cage while their master attends to business freaks ’em out. Go figure.”
“This is her first night. Caging her right off might be too much too soon. I’ll bring her with me.” Eric picked up her leash from where it dangled between her breasts, seemingly forgotten. She was aware of it now, watching as he wrapped the loop around his wrist. He raised a brow at her distressed whimper. “Dominants use leashes for various reasons. I don’t have time to explain all of them. In your case, it’s to keep you close. You don’t know the rules or your way around. I won’t risk losing you in the crowd. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. It just makes me feel so...” She paused and he could tell she was searching for the right word.
“Submissive?” Eric supplied.
“Yes, and rather like a pet.”
He ran his fingers lightly over her soft cheek, noting a visible shiver at his touch. “A pampered pet, I should hope,” he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “If you’d prefer to stay here with Master Samson, in his cage—”
She jumped down from the stool, stating firmly, “No, thank you. I’d rather go with you.”
“There’s a brave girl,” he said with a smile, clasping her hand in his. “Let’s go then. A decadent adventure awaits.”
With her in tow, he navigated the crowded bar, past the teeming dance floor, stopping at the large archway and recessed alcove that contained the security access panel to the playroom. In keeping with tradition set by the original club, they had commissioned gothic doors for Decadence LA, too.
Made of rough-hewn wood and wrought iron, they looked like they belonged on an English castle in the 15th century. Although nothing else was dark and eerie, they guarded the decadence dungeon and made a statement.
From the look on Val’s face—mouth open, jaw dropped as she stared up at them with wide eyes—the statement washoly fuck! What have I gotten myself into?
With a finger beneath her chin, he closed her mouth for her. “Staring agog is a common reaction, but I’m afraid you’ll have to do it later, sprite. We’re in a rush.”
He led her to the small reception desk off to the side, tucked out of sight where an attendant—a member of his security staff—made sure no one entered who wasn’t A) authorized, B) in compliance with the two-drink limit according to their stamped paper wristband, and C) properly dressed. For submissives, this meant wrist cuffs and, if under contract with a dom, wearing their collar. He studied Val, his gaze pausing at her neck, wrists, and feet. She was ready except for one other thing.
He held out his hand to her. “Your shoes.”
Slightly dazed, she gazed at him in question.
“Submissives don't wear shoes in the play areas, except for special occasions," Eric explained. “Hurry now.”
Although visibly perplexed by the rule, she relinquished her high heels. He passed them to an attendant who handed him a claim ticket and buzzed them through.
“Why no shoes?” Val asked, her voice trailing off as she got her first look at the immense play space in front of her.
Eric could tell her mind had already changed gears from shoes to the shocking, carnal world spread at her feet. Bare feet with pink-tipped toes—perfect.
With a hand at her waist, he moved her forward out of the path of the closing doors. “History inspires our barefoot rule. In ancient Samaria and Egypt, only the rich and powerful wore shoes. Prisoners and slaves went without showing a separation between the classes. Along with fines, judges forced the guilty to go without shoes for civil crimes. They felt removing the privilege of footwear was a lesson in humility and dealt a significant blow to the criminal’s pride. We’re not suggesting submissives are criminals or prisoners. Going barefoot serves to set the tone for D/s play by reinforcing the power exchange. Although some of our doms swear it’s solely to prevent escape.”
As the slow closing door latched with an ominous clank, he heard Val murmur, “It’s like I’m Alice stepping through the looking glass.”
“Alice was dreaming; you are very much awake. Any more questions before we proceed?”