Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Forty. More people enter the club, usually in groups of two or three. Despite the wide variety of clothing—some people are dressed like the woman from the alley, some in leather, and some in normal street clothes—I feel overly conspicuous in my pink miniskirt, white cashmere sweater, and kitten heels.

    After an hour, Kitty takes pity on me and sends a text to someone inside. “If he’s in the middle of a scene, you might have a long wait.” She gives me an apologetic smile. “I’ve been a member here for five years, and I’ve never once seen Master Damien allow an interruption. That’s him in most of the photographs.”

    I glance up at the pictures where people are being teased and tortured, spanked and whipped, and yet it is not pain on their faces but pleasure. Erotic pleasure. My hand drifts to my thighs, scarred after years of abuse. I get relief from my pain and, in that release, pleasure.

    Seized with an almost-desperate longing to go inside, I pull out my purse. “Could I go in and look for him? Or just wait inside? I’ll pay the entrance fee.”

    “Members only.” She points to a sign on the wall. “Even if I let you into the lounge, Master Damien won’t be there. We have a separate play area exclusively for members who are concerned about privacy. That’s where Master Damien will be. Except for Master Jack, he’s the most sought-after Dom in the club, which is why he’s always so busy.” She hesitates, shrugs. “He knows you’re here. It’s all about control with the Doms. He’ll come when he thinks the time is right.”

    Control? Or does he just not want to be served? Clearly, forcing the issue isn’t going to work. But patience always wins out in the end.

    “Could you let him know that I plan to wait here until closing?” I settle back on the couch. “You could also pass on the message that if he doesn’t come out, then we’ll get an order for substituted service. If he’s big into control, he might not like that because it means he might lose control of the proceedings because he might not get notice of court dates or of any further applications we file.”

    Kitty gives a nervous laugh. “That’s not the kind of message Master Damien is going to like to hear. If I don’t come back, or if I come back and I don’t sit down, you’ll know what he thought about it.”

    After she leaves, I pace around the reception area, fiddling with the ring I wear on a chain around my neck. Although there are no good memories associated with the ring, I can’t bear to part with it, but sometimes it really weighs me down.

    Finally, Kitty returns, her face flushed. “He says if you sign a waiver, you can go in.”

    My pulse kicks up a notch when she hands me the document. “Where’s the pen?”

    “You should read it first.”

    “I’ve seen lots of liability waivers,” I tell her. “And I’m not planning to stay, so there is little risk of anything happening to me. I’m in, and then I’m out.”

    “It’s not that kind of waiver.”

    With a sigh, I sit and read over the short document in which I am asked to confirm that I am over the age of eighteen, agree to all activities that take place in the club, hold the owner and attendees harmless from damages or injuries, and agree that anything I hear or see will be kept confidential, including the identity of club members. No cell phones or recording devices are allowed. Violation of the agreement or the club rules will result in legal and/or civil action or punishment as the owner sees fit.

    “Punishment?” My hand hovers over the signature line. “What do they mean by punishment?”

    Kitty turns around to show me the bright red backs of her thighs. I can just make out actual handprints on her skin.

    “Oh. My. God.” I stare at her in shock after she turns back around. “He did that to you because of my message?”

    “He did it because I left the reception desk unattended without permission.” A smile spreads across her face. “Isn’t it hot? Most of the submissives here would die to get a spanking from Master Damien.”

    A thrill of fear runs through me, but when I make a move to the door, she hands me another document. “You need to read and sign this, too.”

    “Seriously?” I take the papers. “I’m only going to be in there for five minutes. Four if I walk fast.”

    Kitty laughs. “He thinks you’ll be longer than that.”

    Five minutes later, I follow Kitty into the belly of the beast. My heart pounds wildly as I step through the door, only to thud to a stop when I see nothing more than a fancy bar—long sweeping counter, shelves full of bottles, leather chairs, a few tables, televisions in the corners… But wait. Is that a man on a leash?

    The surroundings may be ordinary, but the people are not. I see everything from nudity to corsets, from leather straps to lace, and from rubber to chains.

    “Master Damien doesn’t allow any play in this area,” she says. “It’s just for relaxing.”

    “Sure,” I say, although how relaxed can a person be kneeling on the floor in a collar and leash?

    She nods to two burly bouncers, and they open a steel door at the side of the bar. “These are the private fetish and play rooms.” Kitty gestures me into the hallway. “Don’t forget that the waiver you signed means you can’t tell anyone what or who you see in here.”

    I glance down at her still-pink thighs and swallow hard. “Yeah, I got that message.”

    Wide and spacious, with shiny black marble tiles, deep purple–painted walls, ornate sconces, and wrought-iron chandeliers, the hallway is at once sensual and frightening. We pass several closed doors and a few with windows, curtains open to reveal rooms containing everything from padded benches to cages.

    “Watch yourself here.” Kitty draws me to one side. “This is the whipping alcove for longer implements, like single tails.”