Page 10 of Dare to Love Again

In the bar, she saw bare shoulders, a back exposed by a daring dress, and smooth legs revealed beneath an up-to-the-ass micro miniskirt. It seemed bar attire was more circumspect, but once inside the dungeon, it was no holds barred. Or more aptly put, no holes barred.

Exposed nipples were commonplace for both male and female attire—the subs, mostly—and bare bottoms came in all shapes and sizes. Again, not gender specific. And genitals were on open display as if they were no more intimate than an earlobe or an elbow.

Esme could only stare, entirely at a loss for words.

No, wait. She had two—holy crap!

Glancing down at her own attempt at sexy fetish wear—a leather corset which revealed a modest amount of cleavage and a skirt that fell to mid-thigh—made her feel like a nun. A flash of memory took her back to her days at St. Anne’s Catholic School. She imagined the good sisters’ expressions upon witnessing the spectacle before her and would have laughed if she weren’t so stunned.

“You’re beautiful, Esme, and you don’t have to bare it all to fit in here. They take all comers here. When you find someone you’re comfortable playing with, you can negotiate how much you’re willing to expose in the scene or go upstairs for more privacy. They monitor the theme rooms just like the main floor.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re shaking, sweetheart. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the bar, have a drink, settle your nerves, and talk about what you can expect? It’s been a while for you, and LA is not Baltimore.”

Truer words...

As the memory of that first night faded, Esme looked around and realized how right Pax had been. Standing inside the gothic doors now, she no longer saw only yards of skin, bare boobs, and exposed bottoms, but the people behind the BDSM trappings, or lack thereof.

Underneath, they weren’t much different from those she knew in the lifestyle back home. Out of the mainstream, they sought acceptance, kinship, and connection with a community. All of which could be found here at Decadence.

Aside from kink in every manner imaginable, there was also—extravagance. From the exquisite marble fixtures in the bathrooms to the plush furnishings and rich décor in the lounge and bar, and the custom-made bondage equipment that filled at least thirty stations in the playroom and the dozen theme rooms upstairs, they had spared no expense.

They even had heated floors! Rightfully so, since the rules stated submissives went barefoot once inside the dungeon. She found it ironic how no one blinked at the crops and paddles connecting with bare subbie bottoms and other tender parts, but heaven forbid their toes get cold.

Unable to help herself, a giggle escaped her lips, causing a few passersby to turn and stare. Because attention was something she tried to avoid, she smoothed out her features, averted her gaze, and headed down the few steps to the main floor. Immediately, she sensed a heightened energy she hadn’t noticed in her previous trips. The room was buzzing with excitement broken by the frequent and loud crack of a whip. Esme looked toward the back of the room. The lights were up, which was unusual. There were whipping posts and large cordoned-off spaces, but she’d never seen them used before.

Something was going on tonight, and she wasn’t sure what. She missed having Pax at her side. Half of her wanted to hightail it out the front door, but morbid curiosity drew her deeper into the room, and the farther she went, the bolder the play became.

She’d been to clubs before with Andrew, and a few times by herself about a year after he died. She was depressed and lonely, and like now, Pax had been out of town. But the dungeons back East were nothing like Decadence. The clientele wore leather and took part in scenes, but the most daring things she’d observed were the paddling of a male sub on the seat of his leather pants and a female submissive bound to a cross. Although her short skirt and skimpy top left a lot of bare skin exposed to her dom’s lash, all her important parts were covered. It was the same at all the other clubs she’d visited; nudity was against the rules as was public sex.

Here, the submissive men walked around in cock sleeves and nothing else, or harnesses, which were mostly a series of thin straps, buckles, and rivets—or completely naked.

Not to be ignored were the pussies, also exposed and in varied presentations, from smoothly waxed to neatly trimmed and in vintage style—full 1970s bush. Some were clamped, others had a single piercing, and a few looked like they’d spent considerable time in the tool-and-die shop being modified with O-rings. Still, others were bejeweled and bedazzled, and a few had dangling weights. Ouch!

Where sex only happened behind closed doors at the public clubs she’d attended, at Decadence, it was going on everywhere. Not your average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill missionary-style sex, either, but raw, undiluted, kinky sex. In pairs, trios, and groups with more participants than she could count. There was even a solo performance or two going on. Directed by a crop-wielding dominant, naturally.

The variety of implements didn’t stop there. While walking the circuit, she saw paddles, floggers, and whips in a variety of colors and lengths. A few were full-sized bullwhips worn coiled at the waist of a scary-looking leather-clad man, although she had seen a red, braided quirt carried by a woman.

Tonight, the members didn’t limit the kink to basic bondage and impact play; it was edgier. Pax may have steered her away from the hardcore stuff on prior trips, but he couldn’t have concealed the crackle of a violet wand or the smell of acrid smoke from the fire play scene she’d glimpsed in a dimly lit corner. And she couldn’t have missed the cries of pleasure or the screams of pain that sounded more strident and frequent than on previous nights. The most voluble, if she had to rate it, came from the brightly illuminated scene toward the rear of the enormous space. Curious, she wandered over for a peek, but the crowd was shoulder to shoulder and at least five gawkers deep.

“What’s going on here?” she asked the woman beside her who was also up on her toes, but she had the arm of the man beside her for support.

“A lacing demonstration. I’d love to try it. Mistress Melissa’s corset designs are so beautiful, but I have a needle phobia.”

“If this is something you want to try, we’ll work on that, Chloe,” the man beside her said. “But for now, hush, so everyone can hear her instructions.”

“Yes, master,” the blonde dutifully replied.

Esme couldn’t understand what was so fascinating about watching someone being laced into a corset, but this couple and the other onlookers appeared transfixed. It became clear when a few people in front of her shifted.

A submissive lay facedown on a bondage table as her domme stood over her, hands expertly lacing a crisscross pattern down her back. At first glance, it seemed innocent, the black and ivory laces a beautiful contrast to each other and the woman’s fair coloring. On second glance, she noticed there was no corset. Instead of boning and satin, there was only the sub’s pale skin, and rather than metal grommets to thread the laces through, they were looped around parallel rows of needles embedded into the woman’s skin running the length of her back on either side of her spine.

“Oh, my stars, that must be excruciating!” Esme whispered in horror.

The man standing next to her glanced over with his eyebrow sharply raised. “Take another look. The mistress uses fine gauge needles and they only penetrate a few millimeters beneath the skin.”

Squinting, she peered closer, noting that the needles were almost perpendicular to the sub’s skin, nowhere near as deep as it first appeared. Still, it was shocking and to someone squeamish like herself, disturbing. “Won’t they scar her back?”

“This is your first piercing demonstration, isn’t it?”

And my lastwas on the tip of her tongue. Wisely, she answered with, “Yes, sir,” instead.

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