Page 2 of Breaking Free

“I know you do, precious. For now, let’s find a couch and a nice soft blanket.” Her domme hugged her close, supporting her wobbly-legged charge as she guided her to one of the many well-stocked aftercare areas.

Tristan packed up—quick and efficient. He’d done it so many times, he could do it in his sleep. The flogger went into a plastic bag and into an outer pocket, always careful to keep used items separate until they were thoroughly sanitized. It was Diana’s flogger, however. She would have that task once he returned it to her, later when she didn’t have her hands full.

He envied the young mistress. Everything was new and exciting. He’d been like that once, eager to learn and try everything. Had it really been seventeen years since he’d attended his first shibari demo?

When was the last time he felt Diana’s eagerness? Certainly, before moving to LA after his military discharge, and long before his world had forever turned upside down.

With years of experience, he always tried to pay it forward by being a resource to new doms. He also took his shifts at monitoring and stepped up to do demonstrations. Ties and suspensions, among the most frequent requests, turned into a twice-a-month event. He had hoped it would reignite the excitement he’d felt when first starting out in the lifestyle. It hadn’t. He couldn’t recall when he’d last negotiated a scene with a new sub or reserved a private room just for fun.

He slung his heavy rigger’s bag over his shoulder, in the mood for whiskey rather than fun. Frustration washed over him as he strode through the crowded main floor. At thirty-eight, he had expected to have his life figured out by now. He wasn’t even close to solving the mystery.

With a sudden burst of agility, Tristan sidestepped, narrowly avoiding a collision with the brunette who, out of nowhere, darted in front of him and fell to her knees. His heavy bag jerked him off-balance, causing a sharp twinge in his left shoulder—the old injury from his military days flaring up with the sudden movement.

“What the hell?” he growled, glaring down at her, his jaw tight from the pain.

The woman gazed up at him, her regret over her impulsive actions evident. “I-I apologize, Master Tristan,” she stammered. “I didn’t intend to startle you. I...wanted to offer myself for your next demonstration. If you’d be willing to have me.”

Tristan’s irritation lessened as the shooting pain localized. Selina was a dark-haired, dark-eyed exotic beauty sought after by many. Despite masking it with sirs and downcast eyes and now kneeling, her selectiveness and overly assertive nature made him reluctant to engage with her. His lack of interest only made her bolder.

In an unwavering tone, he told her curtly, “I appreciate the offer, but your chop-block method isn’t to my liking.” When shegazed up at him, clearly puzzled, he mustered the patience to explain. “That means taking a dom you’re interested in out at the knees. You’ve been a member here long enough to know that’s not how things work. You need to attract my interest, not demand it.”

Her brown eyes widened in surprise, a shimmer of tears gathering as she rose to her feet. “I apologize, Master Tristan. I will remember that in the future.”

Tristan acknowledged her with a nod, feeling a pang of regret as she hurried away. He shouldn’t have been so harsh with her, but he didn’t like pushy subs and preferred doing the choosing. He also hadn’t decided if he’d continue with public demonstrations. Given how he felt tonight, he doubted his future as a club master—period.

He moved his heavy bag to his right shoulder and exited the playroom. The pain, now a dull ache that would require ice and ibuprofen, served as a reminder of the shadows from his past. Perhaps this encounter was a sign to reevaluate his place in the BDSM world and figure out where his true desires lay.

He went to the lounge and stowed his gear on a shelf behind the bar. While there, he reached for a glass and poured himself a generous double shot because with his shoulder tweaked, he was done for the night. As part owner, no one would question his right to self-service or to indulge in something from the top shelf. Aptly named Decadence, the club was renowned for its opulence and attention to detail and how it catered to their patrons’ every desire, including at the bar.

He marveled at how his tastes had evolved. Gone were the days of downing harsh rotgut whiskey. With each year, his palate had grown more refined, craving the velvety warmth of the smooth Kentucky bourbon—specifically, Elijah Craig, an eighteen-year-old single-barrel marvel.

As Tristan sat sipping his bourbon, lost in his thoughts, he felt a presence beside him. Glancing up, he saw his friend and managing partner, Eric Dupree, settling onto the empty stool beside him. He waved off the bartender when he approached.

“Tough mission?” he asked.

Eric was ex-military, a former Navy SEAL, but Tristan, who was Army, didn’t hold that against him. Like him, he was also a Rossi man. He hadn’t been part of the recent extraction in Columbia, but he knew about it as the CFO and one of the partners.

“It was routine and rather boring, actually.”

“Are you ill?”

He took another sip of his bourbon and then swung his head to stare at his friend. “Why this sudden concern?”

“I like to know if there’s a reason a dom makes a sub cry outside of a negotiated scene before I chew them a new one.”

Tristan grunted. “Bad news travels fast. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with the Decadence grapevine.” He drained his glass before admitting, “I already planned to apologize to Selina, but some of the subs around here are forgetting their place. It’s not... What did we call it back in high school when the girls asked the guys out?”

“Sadie Hawkins? Or some such bullshit.”

“That sounds right. Unless it’s a domme doing the asking, we need to look at retraining if that’s how things are going around here.”

“Selina can push boundaries, but I haven’t known her to cross them. As a member in good standing for a year, she knows the rules and the consequences for breaking them. If she needs correction, we have other means than biting her head off and making her cry.”

“The carousel? For volunteering for a demonstration? And they call me harsh.” He rubbed his face with both hands, feelingthe sudden drain of fatigue. “I’m in a foul mood. I said I’d apologize. That should end it.”

Eric studied him briefly before remarking, “You seem off, and I don’t only mean tonight. When are you ever going to find a sub and settle down?”

Not this old line, again. He barely contained a sigh. “Never. That’s not my style.”

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