The past week had gone by quickly. My parents would be home in four days, and I could already feel the shift in the air. Like this strange little world I’d been living in, this secret space where I got to be someone else, or maybe more myself, was starting to dissolve at the edges.

I’d spent every possible moment with Chris. He was my neighbor. The man I’d had a schoolgirl crush on since he moved in next door. At first, it was just innocent watching. Harmless daydreams. But in the last six months, those daydreams got bolder. I started watching him more closely, especially when he had women over. And I wasn’t shy about being seen, either. I’d put on little shows from my bedroom window, giving him glimpses, hoping he’d look, knowing when he did.

Then, about a week ago, I stopped waiting. I took charge of my own hunger and offered myself to him. No more pretending. Since then, he had been... more than I expected. My guide, maybe. That word felt too dramatic, but also not strong enough. He’d helped me explore my body, my wants, the parts of me I’d spent years ignoring or pushing down. He never rushed. Never teased. When I panicked or overthought, he just waited, steady. Like I wouldn’t scare him off, no matter how unsure I was. That had been everything.

And then there was Dahlia. I met her through Chris. She was a professional Domme, though that label only scratched the surface. She was older than me, early forties, maybe? She had striking eyes and a voice that could disarm or command, depending on her mood. Always perfectly put together. Her style wasn’t flashy, but intentional: tailored pieces, quiet luxury, clean lines. There was a calm to her. A kind of gravity that made you want to lean in when she spoke.

She didn’t hover. She observed. And then, just when I thought I had something figured out, she dropped a suggestion that made it all feel new again. She saw things Chris wouldn’t, like what I was hiding, what I was faking, and what I might be ready for next. I’d been grateful for her. For both of them. Somehow, they’d built this space around me. A place where I could play, ask questions, and mess up. And not feel stupid for any of it.

One evening, while we were curled up on the couch in his living room, Chris said it casually, “I have to go to New York mid-next week. Work stuff. Just for a few days, but I’ll be gone over the weekend.”

I tried to keep my face neutral, but I wasn’t great at hiding disappointment. It settled heavily in my chest. I didn’t say anything for a minute, just picked at the seam of the pillow in my lap and nodded like it didn’t matter.

Because this wasn’t real life. This, whatever this was, had been a stolen season. A fantasy stitched together between my parents’ absence and his patient hands.

“I was hoping we’d have more time,” I said, finally. It came out smaller than I meant it to.

Chris turned toward me, serious. “We still have time. And we’ll find a way to keep this going even after your parents are back. We just... have to be careful. We can’t be as brazen, not with them right next door.”

I nodded again, this time slower. He wasn’t brushing me off. He meant it.

But it still felt like something was slipping. Like we were on borrowed time.

Soon, it was time for Chris to go. The Uber came just after sunrise, headlights cutting across the driveway while the world still felt half-asleep. He kissed my forehead at the door, bags in hand, and promised to text when he landed. Then he was gone.

The house felt too quiet without him. Too still.

I tried to make things feel normal for the next few days; read a book, did some laundry, and made myself a proper dinner like an adult. That plan fell apart by the first evening.

The hunger was still there. Low and constant. Like a hum beneath everything. My fingers didn’t help. The egg helped even less. The kind of ache I felt wasn’t just physical, it was threaded with something else. Need. Craving. A sort of restless, raw electricity that built up and had nowhere to go.

For a second, just a flicker, I thought about going back to Zorba’s Adult Shop. Maybe wandering the aisles again, maybe... something more. But the thought made my stomach twist. Not in a good way.

I’d learned a lot in the past week. About submission. About trust. About what should happen when you hand your body over to someone else. And when I looked back on what happened at Zorba’s, I saw it differently now.

It hadn’t been safe. Not really.

At the time, I thought I was being bold. Daring. But now? It felt more like desperation. I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted then. I still didn’t, not completely. But I was closer. And I knew better than to go chasing that kind of attention again.

I wasn’t that girl anymore.

___ 🐺 ___

By the second day, I caved and texted Dahlia.

Hey. Could we talk?

She replied almost instantly: Lunch tomorrow? My treat.

We met at The Henry, one of those places that looked like a magazine spread — marble tables, gold flatware, everyone dressed like they belonged in a luxury skincare ad. I felt out of place before I even sat down. She, of course, looked perfectly at ease. Flowing linen pants, oversized sunglasses, hair twisted up like she’d just come from a photo shoot.

She didn’t say much at first. She just let me settle in, let the silence hang until I was ready to fill it.

“I thought I’d be fine,” I said finally, after the waiter left. “Chris was only gone for a few days. I told myself I could handle it.”

Dahlia raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet.

“I wasn’t fine,” I admitted. “It was like... this hunger. Inside. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t sleep. I kept trying to calm it down...” I paused, flushed, “with toys. With my fingers. But nothing worked. Not really.”

She stirred her drink slowly, then met my eyes. “It wasn’t just about the orgasm anymore, was it?”

I shook my head. “No. It wasn’t.”

She nodded, like she’d expected that answer. Like she was already ten steps ahead of me.

Dahlia took a long sip of her drink, then set it down with a soft clink.

“I’d been booked out lately,” she said, almost like she was thinking out loud. “Private appointments. Regulars. Some newer clients were pushing their boundaries.”

She trailed off, then glanced at me. Something unreadable flickered across her face.

“But,” she said slowly, tapping her nail against the glass, “there was an event this Saturday night.”

I sat up straighter without meaning to.

“It was a play party,” she went on. “High-end. Very discreet. Invite-only. Not the kind of place people just wandered into. It was held a few times a year, and people flew in for it.”

She let that hang for a second, then leaned in slightly.

“You wouldn’t be participating,” she said. “Just observing. Watching. I needed to be clear about that, Madeline.”

I nodded quickly, not sure if I was relieved or disappointed.

“It could get dangerous very quickly if you weren’t prepared,” she added, her tone more serious now. “People went deep in there. Deep into roles, dynamics, scenes that weren’t just about sensation. They were about power. Control. Surrender. It wasn’t a place for curiosity without caution.”

I swallowed. “But watching was okay?”

She gave a small smile. “Watching might be exactly what you needed. That hunger you were carrying. It wasn’t always about doing. Sometimes, it was about seeing. Understanding what was possible.”

A lot of thoughts ran through my head all at once. Curiosity bloomed fast and hot, pushing out some of the nervousness. What would it look like? Who would be there? What kinds of scenes would I see?

More than that, I wanted to know who ran something like this. Who had the kind of presence, the kind of power, to host a space where people flew in just to play?

I looked at Dahlia, wondering if she could read my mind.

“Who ran these parties?” I asked quietly.

Her smile widened just a little, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Wealthy people,” she said. “People who’d been part of this world longer than you’d been alive. Former pros. Power players. They were selective. Intentional. You didn’t get an invite unless someone vouched for you. And even then, you were watched.”

“And you were one of them?” I asked.

She laughed softly, a warm sound, but didn’t answer directly.

I blinked. “And this all happened right here? In Phoenix?”

Dahlia smirked, picking up her fork like we were just two women having an ordinary lunch.

“Surprising, isn’t it?” she said. “You think you knew a city, and then you found out there was an entirely different map layered underneath. One that only showed up if you knew how to look.”

She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then met my eyes. “Zoning laws here were... flexible, let’s say. A little creativity went a long way when you knew how to work within the rules and bend a few.”

I stared at her, unsure if she was joking or being serious. She wasn’t laughing.

“Phoenix was a desert,” she continued, leaning back. “Dry on the surface. But it was starving for sensation. You’d be amazed at what that hunger created.”

She smiled, but there was something sharper about it now.

“And who would suspect it in Phoenix?” she added. “LA? New York? Sure, people expected it there. But too many unwanted eyes. Too many questions. Here? That was part of the beauty of it. People thought it was all cactus and heat. They didn’t know about what was going on behind the walls.”

I sat back in my chair, the noise of the restaurant fading into the background. The city around me suddenly felt... different. Less like the place I’d spent my whole life, and more like a canvas I hadn’t even noticed before.

A little fear bubbled up in my chest, but underneath it, I could feel excitement stir. It was that nervous thrill. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d felt this way… this alive. This pulled toward something unknown, something that felt like it might be too much for me, but also... exactly what I needed.

I leaned forward, my voice quieter now. “I was... a little scared,” I admitted. “But also, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Dahlia smiled, not in a patronizing way, but like she understood exactly what I was feeling. "Good," she said simply. "Fear was natural. It meant I was paying attention. And I should always be paying attention."

I swallowed, trying to keep the wave of nervous energy from overtaking me.

“I wasn’t sure if I was ready for something like this,” I said, the words coming out in a rush. “But... I needed something. I needed to understand it more, to see it for myself.”

She nodded, her expression softening just a little.

“I didn’t need to be ready to dive in. Just seeing it, just watching, might be enough for now.”

I could feel the weight of the decision settle on me, the choice now hanging in the air between us. A part of me was still terrified. But another part was already reaching for it, eager to see what was behind that door Dahlia was holding open for me.

I nodded.

It wasn’t a loud decision, or a bold one. Just a small tilt of the head. But Dahlia saw it for what it was.

Her smile returned. It was subtle, but approving.

“There was a dress code,” she said, her tone shifting into something cooler. More precise. “Elegant. Subtle. No neon, no logos, nothing that screamed for attention. You wouldn’t have what you needed, but I’d bring the right pieces with me when I picked you up.”

I blinked. “You were picking me up?”

“Of course,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “No one went to a place like this alone. And you weren’t walking through those doors looking like a college girl headed to a club.”

I nodded again, but she wasn’t finished.

“You’d also need to be impeccable,” she added, her eyes holding mine. “That meant shaved. Waxed, if possible. Manicured. Pedicured. Skin clean. Hair styled. No chipped polish. No visible bra straps. Nothing left undone.”

I swallowed hard. A slow current of adrenaline rolled through me. I felt like I’d just been handed an invitation and a warning in the same breath.

___ 🐺 ___

Saturday came fast.

I had followed her instructions exactly. Every inch of me was scrubbed, waxed, polished, and pressed. I barely recognized myself in the mirror. There was a strange power in being this prepared, this controlled. No room for mistakes. No casual edges.

Right after sunset, I heard the soft hum of a car pulling into the driveway.

I opened the door before she had the chance to knock.

Dahlia stood there, framed by the fading light, a large structured bag slung over one shoulder. She looked like she had stepped out of some dystopian fashion spread — sleeveless black jumpsuit with matte leather accents, a high collar hugging her throat. The front zipper was drawn halfway down, just enough to suggest, not reveal.

“Good,” she said, giving me a slow once-over. “You listened.”

She stepped past me into the entryway, the bag making a soft thud as she set it down on the floor.

“I brought what you’ll wear,” she added. “Everything’s in here. Don’t ask questions, just put it on exactly as I tell you.”

There was no smile this time. No playful teasing like before. Just calm authority. Very measured and deliberate.

“I’m going to fix my face while you change,” she said, already moving toward the guest bathroom. “Five minutes. Be ready.”

The bag waited at my feet, heavy with whatever secrets she’d packed inside.

I opened it in the living room, kneeling beside it like it might bite.

Inside was a thin black tank dress. It was as soft as a whisper, cut so simply it almost looked innocent. Until I lifted it. The fabric clung to my fingers, slippery and fine. It would mold to me when I moved, and in the right lighting, it would be almost see-through. There was no bra.

Next, I pulled out a thong. Fluorescent green. I blinked. Hadn’t she said nothing bright?

I held it up between two fingers, baffled, then laughed under my breath. Was this a test? A statement? Either way, it was the only thing in the bag.

The final piece was a cropped grey fur jacket. Fake? I didn’t know, but it was exquisite — soft and decadent, the kind of thing you’d throw over a thousand-dollar dress just to say I don’t care. It tied shut with a single red silk ribbon, knotted at the ends.

There were no shoes.

I stood holding the dress up to the light. It looked almost blacker in the shadows, until the light hit it just right, and I could already see the outline of my hand through the fabric. I hesitated. Then stripped and slid it on.

It clung like it had been sewn onto me.

The thong felt obscene. The jacket, when I shrugged it on, made me look like some decadent contradiction — barely dressed and wrapped in softness.

I looked down at my feet. Still barefoot. I waited until I heard the bathroom door unlatch, then called out, “Dahlia? There aren’t any shoes.”

She stepped into the living room without looking up from her phone, one hand still adjusting something at her wrist.

Without a word, she tossed a pair of black flip-flops onto the couch beside me. I stared at them.

“Flip-flops?” I asked, confused.

“You’ll be barefoot at the party,” she said, eyes finally lifting to meet mine. “No street shoes allowed past the entry level. These are just for now. To get from here to the car without ruining your look or picking up god knows what from the driveway.”

She tilted her head slightly, assessing me.

“The jacket’s tied wrong,” she added, stepping closer. “Too tight. Let it hang a little looser.”

She reached out and tugged the ribbon loose, then retied it with a single elegant motion, letting the fur drape open just enough to hint, not expose.

Her eyes lingered on the fluorescent green line barely visible beneath the dress.

“That,” she said dryly, “is on purpose.”

___ 🐺 ___

The drive downtown was quiet. Dahlia didn’t make small talk, and I didn’t try. The city lights blurred past the windows, Phoenix humming with its usual mix of desert calm and restless energy.

We pulled up to the Sheraton.

I blinked. “A hotel?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Skeptical, edged with disappointment.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped out as the valet opened her door, heels clicking softly against the pavement. I followed, flip-flops feeling ridiculous against the polished marble just inside the entrance.

Then, just before we went in, a man in a black suit stepped forward from the shadows near the main doors. Not hotel staff. Not security. His suit fit like it was stitched directly onto him — tailored to the line of his shoulders, the cut of his jaw. Impeccable.

He nodded at Dahlia. No words exchanged.

Without hesitation, we followed him as he led us past the usual guest flow and out a side entrance, where a black Lexus waited at the curb. Sleek, spotless. Luxurious without drawing attention. Something a doctor or an executive might drive. Not flashy. Not suspicious.

He opened the back door for us.

I slid in first, the leather cool against my skin. Dahlia followed, composed as ever, and the man closed the door behind us.

The city stayed outside.

The car eased into motion — smooth, deliberate. No rush. No wasted movement.

I watched the city through tinted glass, trying to make sense of where we were going. At first, it felt random. Then I noticed we weren’t taking the most direct route downtown. Instead of cutting south immediately, he veered west toward the I-10, merging on for only a few exits before drifting off again. Curving through unfamiliar streets.

Eventually, I recognized the shift.

The Warehouse District.

It wasn’t the heart of downtown. It was what came just after — gritty, half-redeveloped, like the city had tried to clean it up but lost interest halfway through. Some of the old industrial buildings had been gutted and reimagined: art studios, co-working spaces, minimalist galleries. But a lot of it was still what it had always been.

Sparse foot traffic at night. Fewer lights. Fewer eyes.

I shifted slightly in my seat. The dress whispered against my skin.

Dahlia didn’t say a word. Neither did the driver. The silence wasn’t awkward — it was intentional. A kind of hush that settled over the car, like we’d passed through some invisible curtain and were already halfway into a world I didn’t understand.

The Lexus slowed as we approached a plain, flat-faced concrete building. A corrugated metal awning jutted out over what might once have been a side entrance or employee smoking area. No signage. No windows. Just poured concrete and silence.

As the car rolled closer, motion-sensor lights snapped on, one by one, casting stark, yellow-white cones across the cracked pavement.

Dahlia finally turned to me, her voice quiet but clear.

“Remember what I said about the zoning laws?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. She didn’t wait for a response.

“This kind of thing can’t happen just anywhere. Too many eyes in LA. Too many whispers in New York. But Phoenix...” she gestured out the window, “...Phoenix has dead corners. Pockets that no one cares to look at too closely. Mixed-use zones. Half-written city plans. Areas that used to be something else and never quite made it back.”

She looked at me again, sharp now.

“This building used to be part of a sheet metal processing plant. Now it’s... officially, anyway... a private art studio. One of those quiet little spaces no one questions. It got grandfathered into a zoning loophole that no one ever bothered to fix.”

She looked out her window at the concrete face of the building.

“Artists lease the front half during the day. But at night, well, people like us rent it out for something a little more curated. As long as there’s no noise complaints and the permits stay clean, nobody asks.”

The Lexus turned down a narrow alley that ran along the side. One wall was lined with sealed loading doors, the other a bare stretch of graffiti-marked brick. Halfway down, the driver pulled up to a wide concrete dock, edged with a rusted railing and a single metal door.

The car stopped. The engine clicked off.

I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, flip-flops slapping softly against the concrete as I followed Dahlia up the short steps of the loading dock. The air was still, heavy. Dead quiet.

No voices. No street sounds. Just the creak of the building settling somewhere in the dark.

As we approached the steel door, it opened without a knock.

Another man stood there.

Another immaculate black suit. Tailored within an inch of perfection. His expression was unreadable, his eyes cool and steady. He stepped aside without a word.

We crossed the threshold.

The door clicked shut behind us with a finality that sent a chill up my spine. I turned slightly at the sound of the lock engaging. It was loud, mechanical, like it had sealed more than just the air behind us.

The man reached for a second door, this one painted matte black with a small slit of light bleeding out from underneath.

He opened it.

___ 🐺 ___

The quiet was shattered. A deep, pulsing beat rolled over us. It was low, slow, and thick. It wasn’t just sound. It was vibration. I felt it in my chest, in my legs, in the delicate strip of silk tied around my jacket. It was alive.

And just like that, we were inside.

I stepped forward, heart ticking up, but the man’s hand came up, palm out. A silent command.

I froze.

Dahlia turned slightly toward me. “Shoes.”

Right. I bent down, slipped off the flip-flops, and hesitated.

She was already handing hers to the man, who took them with practiced indifference. I offered mine to him, too, but he didn’t move. Just nodded toward a black bin near the door.

Okay. Fine.

I dropped them in. The moment felt strangely ceremonial, like I'd surrendered something more than rubber soles.

And then the second door fully opened, and I stepped inside.

It hit me all at once.

The room was huge! Open-planned, with high ceilings crisscrossed by exposed ductwork and steel support beams. The rawness of the space clashed beautifully with the curated luxury inside. It was part industrial loft, part high-end lounge, part... theater.

Low amber lighting washed over everything, softening edges and casting long shadows. But overhead, stark white track lights highlighted specific pieces; deliberate, like spotlit sculptures in a gallery. Only instead of statues, they lit up kink furniture: a St. Andrew’s cross wrapped in deep burgundy leather, an adjustable suspension frame polished to a mirror sheen, a padded bench lined with restraints, and a pair of chairs connected by something that looked... mechanical.

Art. All of it. Sinister, functional art.

Clusters of oversized leather couches formed intimate circles. Guests lounged with cocktails or bottles of water in hand, some perched like they were holding court, others draped across laps or cushions in practiced poses of submission or comfort.

And the people.

They were impossible. Beautiful. Relaxed. Intimidating.

A woman with crimson lipstick and nothing on but an intricate chest harness walked past me, the sway of her hips unbothered by the eyes that followed. A man in perfectly cut trousers, no shirt, wore a delicate chain that wrapped from his nipple to his navel. Two femmes, barefoot and collared, sat cross-legged at their Dominant’s feet, sharing bites of fruit from a low silver tray, giggling between whispered orders.

In the far corner, a tall figure in a dark red velvet jacket adjusted the straps on a submissive's wrists, every motion slow and reverent, like a ritual. The smell of leather and sandalwood hung in the air, mingled with something darker.

Above it all, the music beat steadily. Not loud. But physical. A low electronic thrum that hummed through the floor, through my bare feet, right up into my spine.

I didn’t know where to look. Everything was too much and not enough. Every detail begged to be stared at. Every second felt like I was breaking some unspoken rule just by being there.

I was still completely invisible.

Dahlia touched the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. I followed, still drinking in the overload of bodies, light, and motion.

She led me to the bar.

It wasn’t what I expected. Not a dark counter tucked in the back, but a sleek, curved setup lit from underneath with soft gold light. The bar top was black stone, glossy and smooth, and behind it stood a bartender in a fitted black vest and nothing underneath, his arms tattooed and bare, his expression cool and unreadable.

Shelves behind him glittered with crystal decanters and curated bottles. Top-shelf labels. Artisanal gins. Amber-colored liqueurs. Wine in deep reds and pale golds. Cocktails being stirred, not shaken, with the kind of precision that felt almost ceremonial.

I caught a glimpse of a small silver tray being handed discreetly across the bar. Something pale and chalky in the center. I didn’t look too long.

Dahlia turned to me, her voice close to my ear over the music. “Stay here.”

I blinked up at her.

“No wandering. No phones tonight, so I can’t text you if you disappear into some dark corner.” Her eyes were steady. “This is not the place to play tourist.”

I nodded quickly.

“And remember,” she added, quieter now, one manicured finger brushing a strand of hair off my cheek, “you're here to watch. That’s all. Eyes open. Hands to yourself.”

I nodded again, harder this time. “I know.”

She studied me for one last moment, then gave a small, satisfied smile.

“I won’t be far.”

And just like that, she slipped back into the crowd. Swallowed up by silk, leather, and candlelight.

I turned to the bar and took a breath, trying to steady the fluttering inside me. I wasn’t sure if it was fear or curiosity or both.

The bartender was already watching me, waiting.

I didn't even have to ask.

The bartender slid a drink in front of me without a word. A stemmed glass, delicate, chilled, filled with something pale and pink-gold. A twist of citrus floated on top, coiled like it had been shaped with intent. The scent hit me first: floral, bitter, definitely not sweet. There was a bite to it. Something herbal underneath. Clean, sharp, grown-up.

I took a small sip.

It was icy and smooth. Complex. A little bitter. A little sharp. Then came the warmth, low and blooming in the chest, like a secret whispered right against your skin.

It was a drink for someone who knew how to savor.

I set the glass down gently, suddenly aware of how naked I felt. Barefoot, nearly sheer dress clinging to me in the light, thong still vivid in the mirror-glint of the overhead beams. Red silk tied around my jacket, soft against my wrist.

I turned slightly and watched.

A man led a blindfolded partner by a leash of twisted silver chain, one hand at the small of her back. A woman lay back across a wide leather bench, her wrists cuffed and arms suspended, breathing deep and slow as another traced a crop along the inside of her thigh. Someone knelt beside a couch, holding still while their Dominant sipped from a glass of wine, one finger resting idly in their partner’s mouth like it belonged there.

No one looked ashamed. No one was out of place.

I was finishing my drink when Dahlia reappeared beside me, quiet as ever. She didn’t speak right away, just glanced at the glass in my hand, then at my face.

I must’ve looked overwhelmed. Or buzzed. Or both.

Her hand brushed lightly against the small of my back, grounding. Not a caress. More of a tap, like a reset button.

“You good?” she asked, her voice soft but direct.

I nodded.

Her eyes searched mine for a beat, as if checking for cracks I couldn’t feel yet. Then she leaned in, her lips near my ear.

“I need to say this again, because I want you safe,” she said, calm but firm. “Consent here isn’t optional. Every scene, every touch, every look. It all starts and ends with a yes. You understand?”

I nodded again, but she didn’t look satisfied.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “I understand.”

She held my gaze a moment longer.

“Good.”

Then, lighter, almost teasing: “Stay put. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

It was the kind of tone people used with children. Slightly mocking, but laced with care. A reminder that I wasn’t as in control here as I wanted to believe. Before Dahlia disappeared into the crowd, she paused for a moment and turned back to me.

“I have to go downstairs,” she said, her voice low but steady, almost like a warning. “There are some private rooms down there. Scenes happening.”

I blinked. “Downstairs?”

She nodded. “Yeah. There’s a whole other layer to this place. Private playrooms. Themed. Soundproof. They’re... discreet.”

I felt a pang of curiosity. “What’s it like?”

She paused again, her eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing how much to share.

“It’s different,” she said finally, the edge in her voice a little sharper now. “What's going on around you? Vanilla. Downstairs makes it look... tame.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating.

I swallowed hard. “I didn’t know there was a downstairs.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm one. “Most people don’t. But it’s there. You wouldn’t even guess it from up here.”

“Is that where...?” I trailed off, unsure if I should ask.

She read my mind, her lips curling ever so slightly. “I’m going there for a scene. No watching allowed.” Her gaze softened. “But you, Madeline... No”

I felt a wave of heat rise in my chest, excitement, but also something sharper, more nervous. She gave me one last, lingering look, as if she were mentally preparing herself for the depths of whatever she was about to do.

“I’ll be back soon. Stay put,” she said again.

And then she was gone, slipping into the crowd, her figure melting into the dim glow of the space.

I was left standing there, drink still in hand, heart racing, thoughts spinning.

Downstairs. Private rooms.

___ 🐺 ___

The drinks kept flowing. I hadn’t even finished one before there was another. Another silky, complex cocktail, always the same pale gold, always smooth and biting in its own way. Every time I finished, I turned, and somehow, without saying a word, another glass appeared before me.

I didn’t know how long I was there. An hour? More? Time moved differently in a place like this. Much slower, stretched out. The noise around me, the conversations, the laughter, the whispers, all blurred into a hum. The music, the smell of leather, the shifting bodies. Everything combined into a haze.

But something in me was starting to break through that fog.

I needed to pee. Badly.

I crossed my legs slightly, trying to push the discomfort to the back of my mind. It was like I could feel the pressure, the fullness creeping up with each sip I took. But the more I focused on it, the more the need seemed to press down.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, my dress still clinging to my skin, the feeling of being exposed never quite leaving me. People moved around me in a blur. The man with the chains, the woman in the harness, the people deep in conversation about some kink I didn’t even understand. Every face seemed like it belonged to another world, another life.

The space itself felt like it was swallowing me, everything too much and not enough. I didn’t know where Dahlia was, but I didn’t want to wander. I didn’t want to look lost. But my bladder was screaming.

My legs were shaky as I took a step away from the bar, the weight of the drink still in my system, mixing with the pressure building in my bladder. Everything felt... too much. Too much movement. Too many bodies. Too many stares.

I couldn’t focus. Not on anything. Not the beat of the music vibrating in my chest, not the low hum of conversations drifting by, not the flashes of skin and leather and chains. The only thing I could think about was getting to the bathroom.

I scanned the room, my eyes darting. And then, through the crowd, I saw it. I spotted the restroom sign across the room. It was a clear, simple symbol, but it felt like a lifeline in the midst of everything swirling around me. The noise, the music, the chatter, the flickering lights. The weight of all the eyes on me. I needed a moment to myself. A chance to breathe.

I took a breath, forcing my body to keep moving, even though the pressure was starting to make my steps feel heavier. My skin tingled, every part of me suddenly aware of the shift, the absence of Dahlia’s watchful presence, the way the noise seemed to amplify when I was alone.

I took another unsteady step, my legs like jelly, but before I could move any further, I stumbled, my foot catching on something, my body lurching forward.

I pushed through the crowd, the floor beneath my feet soft with carpet, each step a little unsteady, not just from the alcohol but from the overwhelming sights, sounds, and sensations. People shifted around me, some giving me a glance, others too absorbed in their own conversations or whatever they were doing. I didn’t know what was going on around me, but I felt the heat of their gazes, even if no one was speaking directly to me.

The restroom door felt like a small victory as I approached. I wasn’t running away. I just needed a second to get myself together. My hands were shaky as I reached for the door handle, but it opened easily.

The door swung open, and I stepped inside. The quiet was almost jarring after the chaotic noise of the bar. The soft hum of the lights and the cool air were a sharp contrast to the warmth and pressure I’d felt out there. I took a slow, steadying breath, trying to collect myself.

The restroom was clean and simple, with polished white tiles and soft lighting. It felt like a small haven of normalcy. I leaned against the sink, looking into the mirror, my hands gripping the cool porcelain to steady my shaky legs. My reflection stared back at me, disheveled, but still present. Still here.

I closed my eyes for a moment. It was the first time since we arrived that I’d felt like I could think clearly.

What the hell was I doing here?

My hand moved almost without thinking, down the front of my dress, under the hem. My fingers pressed lightly against the thin fabric stretched over my pussy. Just a touch. Just to ground myself. But even that was enough to feel the slick heat there, the unmistakable wetness that betrayed how much tonight had stirred in me.

I breathed in sharply, my eyes fluttering closed as I leaned harder into the sink.

Why was I like this?

I should have felt ashamed. But I didn’t. Not exactly. There was something else. Something electric curling low in my belly. A pulse of hunger. Not for someone else, but for the sensation. For the edge of danger. The risk. The idea that someone might open that door and see me like this.

Spread. Exposed. Wanting.

But my fingers slid under the elastic of my panties anyway, fluorescent green, loud even in the dim restroom light. The fabric peeled back from damp skin, and the air hit me, cool and tingling.

I pressed again, slower now. A light stroke through the fabric. My hips shifted forward, barely, chasing the pressure. Two fingers, just enough pressure, just enough to feel how swollen I was. I dragged them slowly through my slick pussy, circling my clit without touching it directly. Teasing. Testing. My breath was shaky, soft little gasps spilling out as I braced myself against the sink.

In the mirror, I saw a version of myself I barely recognized. Flushed cheeks. Eyes dark with want. My lips parted, the faintest shimmer of sweat on my collarbone. The lines between fear and excitement blurred. This wasn’t the girl I had been a week ago. She wouldn’t have even imagined this.

My breath stopped. I pushed my palm more firmly against myself, and my knees nearly gave out. A small sound escaped me, quiet but real, and for a second, I forgot where I was.

A moan built in my throat, quiet and tight. I could feel it coming. Waves gathering just behind the edge. My knees trembled. My fingers moved faster now, not thinking, just chasing that sharp, breathless point where I couldn’t come back. So close. So…

The door swung open.

Light flooded in from the hallway. I froze, mid-stroke. My head snapped toward the door, eyes wide.

A figure stood in the doorway. Shadowed. Silent.

We locked eyes, me frozen, one hand still between my legs, the other white-knuckling the edge of the sink. Him standing perfectly still. Early forties, maybe? Tall, dressed in all black. Sharp features. He didn’t leer. Didn’t smirk. Just... saw me.

His expression was unreadable. Not surprised. Not judging. Just present. And then, without a single word, he nodded politely and pulled the door shut again with calm, deliberate care.

Silence crashed down around me.

My breath was short, my thighs still trembling, my fingers slick and hovering between my legs. The pulse I’d been chasing was still there, throbbing just out of reach. But now it was tangled with something else.

Need.

I stared at the closed door, heart pounding in my throat. He didn’t leer. Didn’t apologize. Just looked. Just saw me; open, caught, and then stepped away.

But part of me… part of me didn’t want him to.

The thought landed hard and hot, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I should have felt humiliated. Ashamed. But I didn’t. Not really. What I felt was lit from the inside, turned on in a way I couldn’t name.

Would I have let him?

I didn’t know. God, I didn’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I wanted to believe I would’ve stopped him. That I still had that line drawn somewhere. But standing there, flushed and panting, I wasn’t so sure. What would it have felt like to be taken, claimed, without preamble?

Was that what I wanted?

I didn’t even know the rules I was breaking anymore.

I took several deep breaths and forced my hand to my side. I needed to get out of there. I needed to get back to the noise, the light, the safety of other people. Because in there, with nothing but a mirror and my own reflection, I was starting to see parts of myself I couldn’t unsee.

I took another deep breath, pushed the thoughts aside, and left the restroom, stepping back into the noise of the crowd.

___ 🐺 ___

As I make my way back to the bar, something under one of the spotlights catches my eye. A small crowd has gathered in a crescent, watching in near-silence. The music seems to fade into the background.

In the center of it all, a woman.

She’s poised. Composed and elegant in a way that makes nudity seem like a costume. She’s wearing nothing but sheer black stockings and a delicate blindfold, the kind made of silk, not leather. She’s seated on a low padded bench, straddling two dildos; one inside her pussy, the other stretching her ass. Her legs are wide, feet grounded, and her arms are bent behind her head in a posture of openness, surrender… no, confidence.

She doesn’t shake. Doesn’t flinch. Every muscle in her body seems engaged, and yet completely at peace. She moves with a slow rhythm, and I can’t tell if it’s for the stimulation or the audience. Maybe both.

My steps slow. I stop.

Something stirs in me. Part curiosity, part awe. I don’t look around to see how the others are reacting. I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s the show. The statue. The offering.

And for a moment, I wonder… could that be me?

The idea slips in like smoke. Impossible to catch. Would I be brave enough to let go like that? To be seen like that? Not touched, not directed. Just witnessed.

I try to imagine myself on that bench. Arms behind my head. Blindfolded. Spread wide for a room full of strangers.

My heart skips.

The thought terrifies me. And excites me at the same time.

I shift my weight slightly, thighs pressing together. I’m not even sure when it started, but there’s a throb now. Low and steady between my legs.

She moves again, hips rolling, and I feel it like a pulse in my own body. Something warm spreads through me. My eyes stay fixed on her, but it’s my body that reacts.

Without thinking, my hand drops, fingertips brushing the hem of my dress, lifting it just enough to let my skin breathe. The fabric is so thin it takes nothing to part it. And then I feel it. Damp heat, my arousal soaked through the thin strip of neon green between my thighs.

It’s only when a breeze kisses the inside of my leg that I realize how exposed I am.

The lighting in here is subtle… but precise. Designed to reveal what people pretend not to notice.

I freeze. I know what they saw. That flash. Electric and unmistakable. A streak of fluorescent green in a room dressed in shadows.

My cheeks flush, but I don’t pull my hand away just yet. Not immediately.

I glance around. A few people have turned toward me. Eyes that say nothing, but see everything.

The woman under the spotlight moans. It’s not loud, but it vibrates through me. Her hips rock forward, and I almost echo the movement without meaning to. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of my neck.

The air in the room is cool, but my skin feels feverish. I shift my stance just a small sway, and the friction of my thong shifts against me. The slick pressure is unbearable and perfect all at once. I clench slightly. My body is asking.

Not for contact. Just permission.

I imagine standing under that light. I imagine what they’d see: my flushed chest, my awkward posture, the way I bite my lip when I’m nervous or turned on or both. Would they admire me? Or dissect me?

My breath shudders.

I haven’t touched myself. Not really. But every part of me feels like it has.

I let the dress fall, the hem brushing back down over my thighs. My fingers feel too hot, too knowing. I bring them to my mouth. Pause. Then press them against my lips, almost without thinking. I can taste myself. The hunger is back. But it’s not out of control. Not like before. It’s quieter now. More focused. Like something waiting in the dark, watching with me.

For once, I’m not desperate. I’m curious.

“May I have a taste?”

I turn.

He’s older. In his sixties, maybe even seventies, but age has only honed him. Immaculately groomed, with a head of thick silver hair and skin the color of polished walnut. He radiates presence before he even speaks. Tallish, stately, and impossibly poised, he wears his tuxedo like a second skin, tailored within an inch of ritual, not fashion. Everything about him is intentional.

On his arm is a young woman. Much younger. Younger than me, definitely not old enough to be sipping the champagne she holds with precise, practiced elegance. Her dress isn’t worn so much as applied; clinging like wet paint, every curve smoothed by design. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t glance in my direction. One hand rests lightly on his forearm, a picture of stillness and obedience. Her posture is perfect. Not rigid. Trained. She is not uncertain. She is kept.

He winks.

A cheeky, exaggerated wink. The kind Santa might give in a department store photo, if Santa had a sadistic streak and a private estate with a wing no one’s allowed to enter. It’s charming. Disarming. And entirely deliberate, because behind it is a man who has never once asked for permission.

“I…” I stammer, and then forget what I was going to say. My mouth is dry and wet at the same time. My heart beats faster, but not in fear. Not exactly.

He smiles kindly, like he’s reading every thought in my head. Like this whole moment is already written somewhere and he’s just flipping to the next page.

“No need to answer, dear. Curiosity leaves a flavor all its own.”

Then he lifts two fingers, gentle, clean, unhurried, and taps the rim of his cocktail glass.

I’m frozen. Trying to parse what just happened, when Dahlia returns, her presence is grounding as it is unnerving.

“Oh, Edmund,” she says with an exasperated smile, drawing out the name like it’s a family joke. “She’s not playing tonight.”

Edmund. Of course, his name is Edmund.

“But since it’s you…” she sighs like she’s giving in to a spoiled uncle at a dinner party, “…just a taste. No more.”

His grin deepens, the kind that says he already knew he’d get what he wanted. They know each other. The way they banter. Comfortable. Dangerous. She trusts him. That’s the only reason I’m not bolting.

“Come now, let’s not pretend you’re anything but what you are,” he says, voice low, coaxing, “A barely broken pony, trembling at the edge. And already aching for the bit."

Before I can move or answer, two fingers slide beneath the hem of my dress. Unhurried. Smooth. His touch is confident in the way only age and repetition allow. He parts my pussy. His fingers glide up and down, warm and knowing, slipping through the slickness I hadn’t realized was there.

I don’t pull away.

Then he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them. Delicately. Like he’s tasting a rare wine.

“Marvelous,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Oh, Dahlia… you can’t keep one as tasty as this hidden away from the rest of us.”

He gives me one final look, no longer playful. Thoughtful. And then he turns, casual as anything, and walks away.

“Enjoy your evening, ladies,” he calls back, already halfway across the room.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My legs feel warm. Unsteady. Dahlia doesn’t speak for a moment. She just lets the silence settle over us, letting me decide how I feel.

She finally speaks, her voice soft, unhurried.

“He’s a lot, I know.”

I glance at her. She’s watching me, not with concern, but with an eerie kind of patience. Like she’s checking a pulse only she can feel.

“You okay?”

I nod, but I’m not sure it’s true. My heart’s still fluttering somewhere near my ribs.

“He won’t touch you again without my say-so,” she says. “And more importantly, not without yours. That was… indulgent. I allowed it because I trust him. And I trust you’re smart enough to tell me if that was too much.”

Her tone is level. No judgment. Just the truth.

“He always asks,” she adds, almost to herself. “Even when he doesn’t use the words.”

We stand in the thick air of the room, a heartbeat away from something more. She reaches into her small clutch and pulls out a silk handkerchief, offering it to me without ceremony.

“For your thighs,” she says simply.

I take it, embarrassed and grateful all at once. As I press it between my legs, her voice lowers.

“This hunger of yours,” she says, eyes steady on mine, “it’s beautiful. But beauty needs boundaries. Tonight is still only for watching. That doesn’t change.”

I nod again, slower this time.

“And when Chris gets back,” she adds, “we’ll see how far you’re ready to go.”

She turns back toward the bar, leaving space for me to follow.

___ 🐺 ___

Back at the bar, Dahlia slipped onto a stool like she owned the place. The bartender saw her and gave a nod of recognition, nothing flashy, just the kind of acknowledgment that said she was a regular, or at least someone important.

She ordered without looking at me. “Two Penicillins,” she said. “Heavy on the Islay.”

The bartender smiled. “Great choice. Not too many people order that anymore.”

“Their loss,” she replied, then turned to me.

“It’s smoky,” she said, “but playful. Like mischief by candlelight.”

The drinks arrived in low crystal tumblers, gold liquid over ice, the faint curl of lemon zest barely masking the peat fire rising off the glass. I took a sip, and it hit me slow and warm, blooming in my chest like a secret.

Dahlia was watching again, but not intensely. Just present.

“This part,” she said, “is for pleasure. For savoring. The watching, the waiting, the little games we play with ourselves before the bigger ones begin.”

Her voice dipped low, velvet and steel. “Let it stir, but don’t let it run away from you.”

I nodded, feeling the burn of the drink and her words settling in the same place. I turned toward her, the drink still warming my fingertips.

“What is this place?” I asked the question heavier than it sounded. “Who are these people?”

Dahlia took a long, slow sip before answering. “As I said before, it’s a play party,” she said. “A curated gathering. Everyone here was either invited or vouched for. It’s not about status, not exactly. It’s about discretion. And desire.”

I glanced around again, at the perfect posture, the whispered negotiations, the way touch was both given and withheld like art. “It feels like… theater.”

She nodded. “It is. But the performances are real. The pain. The pleasure. The trust. The control. It’s not for show, it’s for them. For each other.”

I shifted slightly on the stool, suddenly aware of the slight wetness still between my legs.

“And that girl,” I said, my voice quieter now. “The one… riding the dildos. How does someone even get to that place?”

Dahlia smiled. “She didn’t start there. No one does. You work your way toward that kind of openness. That kind of surrender. She’s not performing for the crowd. She’s offering herself in the crowd.”

That landed. Heavy.

I took another sip.

“I felt something watching her,” I admitted. “It wasn’t just curiosity. It was… like I was imagining it was me.”

“And how did that feel?” Dahlia asked gently.

“Scary. But also kind of… right?”

Her eyes met mine, deliberate and calm. “That’s how you know you’re not just dabbling. This isn’t a phase, Madeline. That flicker inside you. That’s the beginning of submission. The real kind. Not the performative kind. Not just wearing lingerie and saying ‘yes, sir.’ It’s about what happens when you stop performing for the world and start surrendering to something inside you. Or to someone who’s earned the right to hold it.”

I stared into my glass, not drinking, just breathing it in. The smoky edge felt sharper now. Like it knew something I didn’t.

Dahlia added, “You’re not broken. You’re not perverse. You’re becoming.”

I glanced sideways at her, hesitant. “So… I read something in Fifty Shades… I know, I know… but it said that submission is about giving up control completely. Total obedience. Is that… what this is?”

Dahlia actually laughed. Not cruelly. It was soft, warm, and almost affectionate. “Oh, sweetheart. Fifty Shades is to kink what a romance novel is to real love. It's fun, titillating, but nowhere near the truth.”

She turned her stool slightly to face me, drink in hand. “Submission isn’t about giving up control. It’s about choosing where your control goes. It's who you trust with it. And knowing that you can take it back at any time.”

“But… what about contracts? Safewords? That stuff felt serious.”

“Oh, it is serious,” she said, her tone turning deliberate. “But not in the way those books made it out to be. A contract doesn’t make it real. Communication does. Negotiation. Trust. You can kneel at someone’s feet and still hold all the power if you haven’t consented to what comes next. And any good Dominant will respect that like gospel.”

She took a sip and watched me over the rim of her glass. “You don’t obey because you’re weak, Madeline. You submit because it’s stronger than controlling everything. It’s deliberate. It’s sacred. If someone takes it from you without that understanding. Without your clear, sober, informed yes, it’s not submission. It’s a violation.”

That last word sat between us. Heavy. Not accusatory. But definite.

I nodded slowly. “Okay. That… that makes sense. I think I misunderstood a lot.”

“You’re not alone,” she said with a smile. “Most people do. But you’re here now. You’re asking the right questions.”

I looked around the room again, at the mirrored glances, the whispered commands, the soft moans that slipped through the music. Maybe I was asking the right questions. Finally.

I swirled my glass and glanced down. “So if it’s not just giving up control… then what is it? Why do people want it?”

Dahlia leaned back slightly, eyes scanning me like she was weighing how much I was ready to hear.

“Submission,” she said slowly, “is about truth. About being seen. Fully. It strips away the layers; the good-girl mask, the pleasing smiles, the pretending. When you submit to someone who’s worthy, they don’t just take control. They see you. The messy parts. The shameful ones. The needy, hungry, trembling parts you hide from the world. And they hold it. All of it.”

That made something tighten in my chest. Not fear. Not exactly. Something like longing.

“You mean it’s emotional?”

“It has to be,” she said, voice low and sure. “Otherwise, it’s just choreography. Real submission… it cracks you open. And a good Dominant doesn’t rush that. They don’t take shortcuts. They guide you to places you didn’t know you could go. But only when you’re ready.”

I sat with that. The clink of glass. The soft hum of music. I felt myself melting in a different way now, not the heat between my thighs, but something inside me loosening. Uncoiling.

I asked, “How do you know when someone’s worthy? Of that?”

She smiled at me, a little sadly. “Time. And mistakes. And a few bruises, sometimes. But mostly, you listen to your gut. And you never, ever, ignore your no.”

A pause.

“Did you feel safe tonight?” she asked gently.

I nodded. “Yes. Until… the drinks. It started to blur.”

“I noticed,” she said. No judgment. Just calm observation. “That’s why I came back when I did. That old bastard should’ve asked you himself. Even for a taste.”

“But I didn’t say no.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “You weren’t fully in your body. That’s not a clean yes.”

I took a slow breath. That distinction landed hard.

“Would you ever… train someone? Like, from the beginning?”

Dahlia tilted her head, amused. “I have. Carefully. Slowly. Why?”

“I think… I want to learn. Really learn. Not just be taken.”

“Good,” she said, finishing her drink. “Because this…” she gestured around the salon, “isn’t where you start. It’s where you come when you’ve built your foundation. Otherwise, this place will chew you up.”

I sat there, heart thudding, and wondered if I’d already walked too close to the edge.

“Just something out of left field… That scene in Eyes Wide Shut. That orgy scene…” I trailed off.

Dahlia laughed. It was an honest, throaty sound that turned a few heads at the bar.

“Oh god,” she said, swirling the last of her drink. “That scene.”

I felt a little foolish, but I pressed on. “Is that stuff... real? Do things like that actually happen?”

She leaned in, the amused glint in her eye softening into something more thoughtful.

“Not like that. Not exactly. Kubrick was selling a fantasy. Beautiful masks. Silent ceremonies. Everyone touched by moonlight and mystery.” She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s cinematic. Erotic. But no. It’s not real.”

I started to say something, but she held up a hand.

“Now, are there gatherings that borrow that imagery? Sure. Especially for the theatrics. But real play… real power exchange… it’s messier. Intimate. Way less choreographed. And the stakes are higher. What you saw tonight. That’s closer to reality. The vulnerability. The hunger. The edges. It’s not all roses and opera cloaks.”

“But the secrecy… the invitations… the feeling that anything could happen…”

“That part’s real,” she admitted. “Some people need the mask to become themselves. They need the rules to break free.”

I let that settle.

“What about you?” I asked quietly. “Have you ever done anything like that?”

She smirked and finished her drink. “I’ve hosted things more daring than that. But again, not with tourists. With people who know how to hold each other safely. Who knows when a no is a no. And when silence means stop.”

That last part landed. Heavy.

Dahlia set her empty glass on the counter and shifted her body toward me, her posture relaxed but deliberate. There was a weight in her gaze now. Less playful, more intent.

“I want you to know something, Madeline,” she said, her voice dropping just slightly, like she was letting me into something secret. “I’m happy to help you explore this. Your submission.”

That caught me off guard, just hearing her say it that plainly.

“Whether that’s through Chris, if that’s where your trust lies, or directly with me. This hunger you’re carrying... it doesn’t have to consume you in a dangerous way. It can be shaped. Guided. Submission isn’t about being used up. It’s about choosing where and how to surrender.”

She paused to let that land. My mind was spinning, but I stayed quiet.

“I’d never rush you. But if you want more depth, structure, and clarity, I can offer that. Not just scenes, but training. Direction. The kind that builds something inside of you, not just tears things down.”

“Oh… and one more thing,” she said, half-joking, half-serious, with that crooked smile of hers. “If Chris ever rushes you, pushes too far too fast... You tell me.”

She took a sip, then added, almost too casually, “I’ll put him in his place.”

“But tonight,” she continued, standing with a graceful stretch, “let’s enjoy the offerings of this open bar.”

She smiled again, wider this time, a spark of mischief back in her eyes. Then signaled the bartender with a flick of her fingers.