Page 5 of Dare to Love Again

Glancing back at the scene, she noticed it had changed. Although the paddle fell just as firmly, the dom interspersed caresses between every few swats. He gently rubbed, soothing the skin he had turned a bright rosy pink. Or he dipped his fingers between the wet folds that glistened with the proof of her desire. This altered approach had her writhing helplessly in her restraints and elicited cries which had nothing to do with punishment.

Esme closed her eyes again, trying to quell her surging need. She could block out the images, but the primal sounds and smells surrounding her were inescapable.

Most people would view coming here week after week to watch but never play as self-torment. At least three full months had passed since her first tentative visit with Pax. In the beginning, she hadn’t wandered far from his side, but after a few return trips, he’d deliberately distanced himself so others could approach. As he predicted, both men and women bombarded her with offers, including a few male submissives who mistook her for an aloof domme. This had shaken her a little, but she didn’t correct them.

One insistent and blatantly graphic mistress had divulged her plan to tie her face up over a wooden barrel and use a braided quirt on her breasts and pussy then lick every inch of her to soothe the pain. Esme had politely declined; then because she scared the bejeezus out of her, she’d run like hell back to Pax’s side.

Topping a man or submitting to a woman wasn’t her kink. Surrendering to a dominant man was and always had been, but she turned them down, too, not yet ready to do more than watch. By coming here and immersing herself in the lifestyle, she could live vicariously through others and fill a small fraction of the emptiness inside her, which was enough for now.

At least she thought so until she came across this scene with Master Flynn and Cassie. Many of the players had the kink down pat but lacked the emotional connection. It wasn’t often she found a couple who had both. When she did, it triggered a mix of bittersweet memories, intense envy, and pain.

The dom’s deep voice counting out the twenty-fourth stroke penetrated Esme’s thoughts. She opened her eyes to see him drop the paddle and move to the end of the bench. His fly was open and his hard cock in hand—impressive in both length and girth. Master Flynn didn’t waste time with further foreplay; the entire spanking scene had been leading up to this moment after all.

He leaned over her, covering and enveloping her with his upper body, and spoke in her ear. But his words were solely for her. The observers leaned in to catch the thread of their conversation, a few outwardly frustrated when they couldn’t.

While they shared this intimate moment, his hand slipped between his hips and her rosy-red bottom. From her vantage point, which was to the side of the bench, she had a direct view of what he was doing. Compelled to look away, she reminded herself they’d chosen a station in the public playroom, which by its very existence invited onlookers. Still, it seemed intrusive, but his command of his submissive mesmerized her. She couldn’t tear her gaze away, not even when he stroked the head of his cock through the seam of her pussy, teasing but not entering just yet.

Esme picked up the cadence in his voice, how it rose in pitch toward the end, as if in question, but not the words.

“Oh, yes, master, please,” Cassie pleaded softly to his unknown query.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, then his masculine hum of pleasure joined hers as his hips thrust forward and he entered her at last.

This wasn’t enough for him, evidently, because his hand curved beneath her jaw and he turned her mouth to his and went in for a smoldering kiss.

Esme’s heart ached at the tender yet passionate scene playing out before her eyes. This dom and sub had something special. Where one found joy in control and guiding with a firm yet caring hand, the other experienced bliss in surrender and in doing so, giving pleasure in return.

She’d had that with Andrew, as well as trust, respect, and love. Missing him and knowing she may never again experience a moment like the one being played out before her eyes made her heart ache. She had the sudden urge to lash out physically, punching, kicking, and throwing a tantrum while screaming at the top of her lungs, asking the same unanswered question she had asked so many times before—why?

Unable to watch anymore, Esme turned, winding her way through the throng of onlookers, eager to move onto the next station rather than stay for the big finish because this scene hit too close to home. As she broke through the crowd standing four and five deep, she felt a shiver of awareness shoot up her spine.

She twisted back and scanned the observers. Everyone was facing front, captivated by the scene, except for one. On the far side of the station, on the outer fringe of people, a man stood with his arms crossed over his chest, body angled in her direction, ice-blue eyes intently focused on her, not on the spanking bench nearby.

She’d met him when she’d applied for membership to the club, an interview with the master dom required for all candidates. Eric Dupree was intimidating, and not just because he was huge. Most of the club masters were. They seemed to grow bigger here than back East.

After that first meeting, she’d avoided him, wanting to keep a low profile and go unnoticed. Today, she caught his attention for some reason.

Deciding not to hang around to find out why, she inclined her head politely. Snubbing any dominant, let alone the one in charge, was never a good idea. Then she got lost in the sea of bodies, not daring to glance back and assess his reaction, either.

On a Friday night, most of the membership turned out to play. Esme used that to her advantage, working her way to the back of the room. To further avoid the master dom’s potential pursuit, she squeezed into an especially large group gathered at a station. She pretended to watch the scene with the others but kept her sidelong gaze fixed on the flow of people on the “circuit,” a path that wound through the main floor and around the constant activity in the stations. She’d hide out here for a few minutes then make her way up front and call it a night.

But a sound reminiscent of the prize wheels at the church bazaars she’d attended as a kid made her turn her head. She’d have to be blind to miss the man strapped to the eight-foot slowly revolving wheel. He was naked except for the steel cage enclosing his tender male bits. Esme didn’t have the same anatomy, but even she winced on his behalf. Though it wasn’t something she’d ordinarily watch—hell, it wasn’t something she’d ever seen—she couldn’t avoid it while wedged deep in the crowd.

It also meant she couldn’t escape easily when the scene took a turn, and the sadistic mistress halted the wheel, hung weights from the poor man’s balls then sent him spinning again. From the groans emanating from the sub each time she flicked her crop on the weights, or in an upward slap directly between his spread legs making him squeal and sweat, he was enjoying his torment.

To each his own.

While she accepted that motto, it didn’t keep her face from flushing hot with squeamish embarrassment. She didn’t doubt it glowed brightly, like Rudolph’s nose on that foggy Christmas Eve. If not for the spinning wheel of torture, which even six-feet-plus Master Eric wouldn’t be able to see over, her face would have led him to her location like a beacon.

By the time she collected her shoes, keys, and phone from the women’s locker room it was past midnight, and she’d convinced herself she’d imagined it. If Master Eric wanted something from her, he had a dozen dungeon monitors to help find her, as well as a slew of other dominants and several hundred submissives who would narc on her in an instant.

She entered the lounge overflowing with people and music blaring from the live band on stage. The purplish glow of the lights reflected off the massive mirror behind the bar. Tonight, she could have used a drink. Two per night came with her membership dues. It was also the limit or playing in the dungeon was out. Esme wasn’t getting her money’s worth because she never partook. Instead, she skirted past the dance floor and headed to the lobby. As usual, she didn’t make eye contact with either the receptionist or the security guard on duty up front.

This past month, since Pax had been gone on assignment, she came and went alone. She’d been lucky his job hadn’t made demands of him before now. As unobtrusively as possible, she watched, soaked up what she could of what she missed so desperately, but like a coward, slunk away alone and unsatisfied. Then she made her sad trek to her modest Northridge home—the price of which would have bought three times the house back in Baltimore—and continued her dismal solitary existence.

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