Page 2 of Menotte avec toi

“Harper, ready to go over the ad?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Attention: NSFW artists for exclusive contracted commissioned art portfolio for local lifestyle club. Seeking one-of-a-kind artwork for our members’ viewing pleasure. Only serious artists need apply. Resume, references, and NDA required.”

“Very thorough without giving too much away.” Why I double-checked anything she did was beyond me. It’s been eons since I’d corrected a single error.

“I’ll add my contact information at the end and will fully vet them before they reach your desk.”

“And that, Patrice, is one of a million reasons why you have unending job security.” She laughed, but I was dead serious. “You are an asset, I hope you know that.”

“Thank you. I’m excited for the grand reopening. Images pale when compared to the real thing.” Patrice and her husband were equal parts exhibitionist and voyeur, as were most of us here. I too was intrigued with how the display cases, that’s what I’d lovingly nicknamed the Plexi sub cages, would work out. I foresaw an onslaught of reservations, booked out for months just to get a glimpse of them. Doms at the ready, intently watching those on display to ensure they wouldn’t overdo it. Pain sluts were a full-time job, in my opinion, and didn’t always know what was best or when to stop for their own good.

Every inch of this club, except for our third-floor residences, had been remodeled. One half of the upper floor was Simon’s, the other mine, both with separate entrances. We had spared no expenses; it was only the best for us and our members. Given we’d waited as long as we had to finally bring their suggestions to fruition, we owed them that much.

We lucked out when buying this building. An opportune time when the market was ripe for picking. We’d undergone a basic remodel then, a refresh of the existing rooms, whereas this time around we scrapped the first two floors completely and built them anew. The only floor we did not touch this time around were our third-floor residences.

No part of the club was visible from the lobby, which also held our offices, but as soon as you entered the double doors, you were immersed in a world of sexual wonder. Hiring a reputable chef and culinary waitstaff willing to work in such an open environment proved to be a bigger challenge than getting the architectural plans through the city. But it was best to know that ahead of time before extending offers to the wrong personnel.

With no sessions scheduled and the club still closed, there was no reason to hang around the office any longer.

Was I bored?

Had I acted rashly, removing myself from the dungeon schedule this morning? What would Simon say when he saw it posted?

What was wrong with me?

My head was no longer aligned with my heart. That was the biggest issue. The life I’d built for myself no longer held the allure it once had.

So where did that leave me now? What was next?

Where do I go from here?

The fact that I even questioned my life confused me. Starting over at my age was not for the weak nor a challenge I’d willingly take on. I had a great life, and I’d be a fool to throw it away. I was just in a midlife slump, that was all. Not a crisis, just a lukewarm mental state. Besides, what would I even do? Old dog, new tricks, and all of that…

Jesus, if I had to listen to one more whining artist blabber on about why we should hire them while handing me a portfolio of random stick figures swinging a cowboy hat with the caption‘yee haw’on it, I was gonna lose my shit. That hadn’t actually happened, but if they thought showing up with juvenile sketches would get them into the club, they were sorely mistaken.

Imbeciles.

I drew that same crap in the third grade. Well, maybe that was exaggerating, just a bit, but it wasn’t what I sought for our club, nor did I accept that as a sign of any real talent.

I wanted faceless bodies engaged so sinfully you couldn’t look away. Acts so delicious I wished to be a part of them. I wanted to be turned on, my panties so wet I was on the verge of orgasm without so much as being touched by myself or by another. I wanted…I wanted…

Her.

There she stood before me, so innocent, so pure.

Well, hopefully not completely innocent, but innocent to the world we were about to guide her through. Her eyes wide as we toured the club, but alight with curiosity and a hint of mischief. Had she envisioned herself strapped in that St. Andrews cross or bent over the spanking bench? Maybe she was drawn to the display cubes, a velvet wand trailed over her naked flesh. Nipples pebbled so hard, even without clamps they drew a hint of pain on their own.

Her beauty was like no other. Simple in comparison to some but so genuine, unenhanced, alluring. Even Simon did a double take and smirked when a barely audible groan escaped me.

Could it be?

Would she be the one to reignite the nearly doused flame inside me? Awaken my desire, set my soul afire, and lure me from the funk I’d been drowning in.

Jesus, now I was a fucking poet.

Her name rolled off my tongue with ease,Sonnet Celestine. Though for some reason I wished to call her Kitten. No. I wished to call hermine.

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