Page 46 of Monarch
“Is it busy tonight?” Roos asks.
“Busy enough. You’ll have an audience.”
Bo’s familiarity with Roos prompts another poke of jealousy, this one sharper than the last. It pops the bubble that Roos and I were living in when it was just us, her bedroom or my hotel room, and a fling that was free of all outside influences.
However, that’s an illusion. We’ve never been free of outside influences. Very specifically, we’ve never been free of Lex. Xe has been there from the start of whatever we are, and xe remains there now, locked in a box in a shelf in my mind.
Funnily enough, my distaste at thinking about Lex again eclipses any discomfort I feel about Roos’ history at QISS, and my determination to be rid of such thoughts is very effective at fixing a smile on my face.
“I’m excited to see what she looks like up on that stage,” I say, and I’m rewarded with a proud look from Roos.
“Enjoy.” Bo opens the door for us, and we slip inside.
The first thing that hits me is the silence. Or rather, the barely perceptible hushed noise that lingers in the room. It’s a sharp contrast to the blaring music and shouting chatter that have filled thespaces where I’ve played before. They’ve been more akin to house parties or late night after-parties. But this feels more orchestrated, more deliberate. It sounds like anticipation.
After my ears adjust to the low murmuring and one voice raised above all others, I find the source of the person speaking louder than the others. It’s a femme-presenting person, standing tall and straight in the middle of the stage. They are dressed how you would imagine a typical Dominatrix to be attired. It’s almost comical how much their black leather trousers and latex corset would suit the first image result for anybody who Googled the word ‘FemDom’, complete with a cane in their hand and a cat-like eye mask on their face.
“Who’s that?” I whisper to Roos, who is looking around at the round tables that fill the space in front of the stage.
“That’s Mother Maria,” she tells me. “She’s our host. And she’s utterly formidable.”
I nod and swallow, feeling a sudden gravity.
“Let’s sit.” Roos nods to a vacant table on the right-hand side of the room, a little closer to the stage than I would perhaps like.
The room is dimly lit – candelabras mounted on the wood panelled walls are the only light apart from those directed at the stage – and I hope the audience is mostly in the dark for Mother Maria. Not that I expect the evening to be like a comedy night, where the performer picks on members of the crowd, but still, I adjust my wristband, ensuring its yellow colour is visible to anybody who checks.
“Ah, Roos,” Mother Maria’s smooth, deep voice purrs as we take our seats. “I was hoping you’d come.”
Roos stands and curtsies to Mother Maria, her head bowed down.
My jaw hangs open again, but then Roos nudges me, and I jump up and do the same.
“You’ve brought a friend. They’re a very pretty thing.”
So much for being in the dark.
“They are very pretty. And very orange tonight.” Roos raises her voice so she can be heard.
I glance around at the tables near us. I see a real mix of people. Young and old, Black and Brown and white, all genders, and all expressions of not just genders but kink and style and creativity. A few of the spectators catch my eye and smile. One masc looking person wearing a chest harness raises a glass to me.
“And you?” Mother Maria asks. She has a stern expression on her face, making her features seem cartoon-esque with their hard edges and long lines, accentuated by the way her dark hair is pulled back in a tight bun. Closer up, I can tell she’s a fair bit older than us. In her forties or fifties, maybe. She reminds me of Cruella Deville, who I have a tattoo of on the side of my thigh. I used to think it was because she was a style icon, but now I’m starting to think it’s because I have a serious kink for strict, imposing and slightly evil women.
Roos holds up her wrist and smiles bashfully. “I’m green.”
“Would you like to come up then? I’ve not had any takers so far.” She glares pointedly at the crowd, and people shift in their seats, but I don’t think it’s with discomfort.
Roos glances at me. “Are you okay if I do?” Her voice is strained, but not in a painful way. More like she’s finding it hard to keep her tone low and calm. Like she has more energy vibrating through her than she knows what to do with.
“Of course,” I say. And even though I’m not sure if I am okay with this, I want it for her. I think she needs it, and right now, I want her to get what she wants.
“Okay,” Roos exhales, her relief audible. Then she walks towards the stage.
Mother Maria moves to greet Roos, and I see then that the cane is not for show. She walks with a slight limp. I think back to the ramp at the club’s entrance. QISS is truly accessible. A place for all. Thisrealisation has me relaxing in my chair a little more, ready for the show.
While Mother Maria and Roos talk in hushed tones for a minute or two, I’m approached by a petite serving person in a waistcoat that cinches their middle and makes their hips flare out. Maybe it’s the lighting, maybe it’s seeing Roos and Mother Maria together in their skin-tight black outfits, or maybe it’s the fact I’m sitting in my first fucking sex club, but I’m suddenly aware of the server’s body, all the other bodies around me,mybody.
“Can I get you something to drink?” they lean in to ask. Their voice is smoky and deep.
