“Why?” Spencer asked, looking just as shocked as Marshall by my reaction.
“Yeah? I thought everything was going great. Is your new secretary not working out?”
“Oh no, he’s great,” I said, unwilling to badmouth him in any way.
“Then what’s the problem?” Marshall asked.
“That’s the problem,” I said, hoping they’d be able to knock some sense into me. “He’s great.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Spencer said, dragging the word. “I see. Someone has a crush on their secretary. So, what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” I stated firmly.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Spencer teased.
“The fun is not getting a complaint from HR for sexual harassment,” I replied dryly.
Spencer ignored me as he was wont to do. “Does he like you back?”
“Spencer, you’re not helping the situation at all. Besides, I’ve decided to give this whole BDSM thing a go. My relationships have just been… ehh.”
“I don’t know,” Marshall said, much to my surprise. “When I was talking to you on the phone the other day, and he came into your office, I was definitely picking up on some submissive vibes from him.”
“What? Been in the lifestyle for a couple of weeks, and suddenly you have some kind of sixth sense about submissives?” The nerve.
“No,” Marshall said defensively. “I’m a trained psychologist, you idiot. It’s my job to be able to read people.”
“Besides,” Spencer said, once again taking over the conversation. “Most vanilla people are way more kinkier than they’d like to admit. Ask anyone what their darkest fantasy is, and I guarantee it’ll have some sort of bondage or spanking or pain. The difference between them and us is we do it.”
For crying out loud, even Oliver was nodding in agreement.
“So what? You guys want me to ask him if he’ll let me tie him to my bed and fuck him?” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “You know what? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Especially since the image of Quentin tied to my bed as I crawled up his body was now firmly burned into my mind.
They both gave me pitying looks but changed the subject. I tried to get lost in the meaningless conversation and ribbing, but now I was thinking of Quentin differently.
Could Marshall be right? Was Quentin submissive?
I went back over every interaction we’d had, and I hated to say it, but it wasn’t impossible. The problem was, did it change anything? My mind said no, but my dick said hell, yes.
He was still my secretary and would be in a vulnerable position if I, his boss, started making unwelcome advances. I would have to be very careful and move very slowly.
Our pizza arrived and we dug in, but I was still too distracted. I thought about asking Spencer to drop me off at his house so I could get my car and go home before he met back up with Marshall and Oliver at the club but decided to stick it out. I was still lost in thought as we left the pizza place and drove downtown.
The outside of the club was relatively quiet, the complete opposite of what I’d expected. Sandwiched between a pizza place and a jazz bar, the simple brick façade with its black door and stylized cross said nothing about what was inside. There was a man leaning against the wall by the door. I assumed he was the bouncer. He was tall, muscular, with tattoos down his arms and a mean expression. He recognized Spencer and reached for the door.
Stepping inside, I found myself in a small front room with a cute guy handling the front desk. His name was Marcus, and it was his job to run all newbies to the club through the rules. They were all pretty self-explanatory.
Don’t be an asshole. What happens at The Church stays at The Church, i.e., no talking about what you saw other people doing. Don’t interrupt. If something looks fishy, tell someone. No gags. More general not being an asshole. After listening to the rundown of the rules, we had to fill out and sign temporary membership forms and nondisclosure agreements.
Then came the flagging.
“Here at The Church, we practice flagging.” He lifted a bunch of colorful wristbands. “We find it cuts down on misunderstandings plus it can be a fun conversation starter. White, gray, and black signify submissive, switch, or Dominant.” Then he lifted a few red and green bands. “These denote if you are available to play or not. If you are in a committed, monogamous relationship or have set up a prearranged scene beforehand, choose red. You can still scene; red just means others won’t approach you to play.
“Other colors indicate various kinks. These are by no means binding contracts you have to abide by. If you begin the night with a red band and decide you want to play later, simply take it off. If you start the night wanting some impact play, but decide you want some rope bondage instead, that’s your prerogative. The bands are nothing more than a visual hint to prospective partners about where your interests lie. If, at any point, you wish to change your bands, contact a DM. They have bands on hand and can change them for you. If you are unsure about what you’re looking for, just having a red or green band indicating your willingness to play is fine.”
I settled for a black and a red band then waited for everyone else.
Spencer had talked about the club enough over the years that I knew exactly what to expect when we finally made our way inside. The dance floor was packed, the white St. Andrew’s cross I assumed was Foster’s—one of the owners—was empty, and the music was loud enough to dance to but quiet enough people could talk comfortably around the edges of the room.
Looking around, I felt a heat unlike anything I’d ever felt before winding its way through my body as my eyes feasted on all the little signs of dominance and submission. I had to force myself to look away from the boy sitting at his master’s feet on a little cushion when I imagined Quentin sitting like that at mine. Would he like that? Would I?
It was strange, but a part of me felt like it was finally complete.
Dazed, I followed Spencer and sat as he claimed an empty booth for our party. Oliver crawled into Marshall’s lap as Spencer lounged in his seat like a king on a throne. Here he probably was, I thought, seeing several pairs of hungry eyes watching him.
As for me, I decided to sit back and soak up the energy in the room. It was wicked and playful, like food for my soul. At some point, Marshall and Oliver disappeared. A few people approached Spencer to play, but it appeared that even with his green wristband, he wasn’t in the mood or just wasn’t into what people were offering.
A pretty blonde girl sat down next to me, but I wasn’t feeling it with Quentin still lingering in my mind. We chatted for a bit until two men that needed no introduction joined us. Spencer had talked about Carson and Foster so much that I instantly recognized them from his descriptions.
Foster was indeed the poster boy for cute, boy-next-door innocence, but I knew his bluish-green eyes and easy smile hid a complete sadist. Carson, on the other hand, looked exactly how I’d pictured a Daddy Dom to be: sort of stern with short dark hair and little lines at the corners of his eyes that said he often smiled, blue eyes that noticed everything, and a strict air about him.
We chatted for a few minutes about the club when Marshall and Oliver rejoined us. Spencer made the introductions and the conversation around the table resumed. That was until Oliver whispered something in Marshall’s ear.