Chapter Six
My recipe
Kevin shook his head, musing. After a moment, he spoke, talking to the tall man standing nearby, the pair of them casually leaning against the wall. “Creating. That is one thing. Cooking—to be a chef means you must consistently replicate success. This means you must understand what made the success…successful. Following a recipe makes life easy. With the perimeters defined, success becomes the most common denominator.” He grinned. “My sex life also follows a recipe. I like success. Like it in every aspect of my life, but especially in the bedroom.” Tipping his head, Kevin listened to the brief question. One word, easy to understand. Shaking his head, he repeated it, rewording for his own benefit. “Where did it start? Well, there's Paris, of course, and Aurelie. But honestly, Chicago was the beginning for me. Of me, in so many ways.”
Kevin walked into the club, striding in as if he belonged. Following the rules outlined earlier in the week via a phone call interview, he signed in at the desk, surrendered his electronics, then strolled as casually as he could manage into the club proper.
The first impression he received was chaos.
There didn't seem to be any kind of separation between the spectator area and the participant staging. People wandered freely back-and-forth in between where couples and groups were scening. This was very different from the clubs Aurelie had introduced him to in Paris. So different, it was difficult to take it all in because the noise and spectacle assaulted him from all sides. If this cacophony of sensation had been his first introduction to the scene, he would likely have run screaming from the room.
He made his way to the juice bar and accepted a drink from the scantily clad attendant. Sucking in a silent breath to fortify himself, Kevin walked to a nearby alcove, turning with no small amount of trepidation to face the room.
Trying to make sense of what he saw, he decided to do it methodically, as he would approach a new recipe, studying everything first. Isolating the individual pieces that make up the whole, seeing how they fit together, and finding ways to twist that piecing in order to make it his own.
From left to right he scanned slowly, taking in the different participants, attentively noting the focus other observers gave to specific scenes, pausing to look at those the longest. Finding the lure, identifying the draw, it helped him to sort out who might be of a like mind. He was here to explore the things Aurelie had wakened in him, and like with cooking school, wanted to study with the best.
The Dom with his sub buckled into a swing, her thighs strapped to a belt secured at her waist. Long hair captive in a ponytail tie, the sub’s head arched backwards, held in place by a leather thong. That thong led to a rope attached to a hook inserted deep into her anus. Her knees were slightly spread, and Kevin watched with rich anticipation as the muscles in her legs trembled. A definite maybe. He’d enjoyed the control aspects of bondage very much.
The Dom stood to one side, his attentive gaze locked on her face, reading her responses, waiting for something only he knew was coming, completely uncaring of the audience. They did not exist for him in this moment, their murmurs about the beauty of the strained lines defined by the blonde’s muscles so unimportant his focus never wavered. Every gasped breath from her lips, every eager quiver of muscles was his, and he drank it down. She was his world in this moment. It was a beautiful scene of anticipation and an excellent example of riding the edge. So much trust in how she’d given herself to the Dom, and he was proving himself worthy. Yeah, a definite maybe.
Kevin’s gaze swung away to take in the sub leashed and led, head angled high as she sauntered confidently on all fours at her Dom's side. Her hair tossed playfully back and forth, a provocative action stilled by the Dom’s hand clenched tightly around the jeweled leather, that connection taut and reassuring between them. Controlled and freed in the same instant. Place of pride, moving beside him, her face turned up, blissful in her devotion to the man who accepted and accentuated her needs.
A shrill scream followed by the sounds of a sobbing release pulled his attention to a farther corner where he saw flickering lights in the shadows. Candle wax play and the buzzing glow of violet wands created halos around the figures surrounding a waist-high table, the body stretched out on that surface writhing as much as possible in the bonds holding it firmly. Not his gig, but he understood the draw because electric play sensitized every nerve ending, pulling all reactions into a heightened state.
Kevin did not intend to play tonight. It had been more than six months since he returned to the states, but this first trip was…research only. A chance to see if the environment at this club would suit him, suit the needs he felt compelled to explore. He had not realized how much he would miss Aurelie and their deep connection. Hadn’t known until he researched that they had been in a unique situation, one not often entered into even by long-time players. Being with someone 24/7 seemed to be the pinnacle of the BDSM world, and yet it was where he began his somewhat reluctant journey.
Conscious of his appearance, wanting to portray only strength and confidence without giving up anything that made him who he was, he had carefully selected his wardrobe for the evening. Dark jeans, black boots, tight tee, and a light-weight black leather jacket provided the facade he wanted, even if it wasn’t a true statement. Dressed like this, at least he was comfortable and unlikely to be taken for a sub. Lifting his glass, he smirked at the thought, then turned in surprise when a voice came from his elbow.
“Would sir like another drink?” Soft and melodic, the woman’s voice drifted through the sounds surrounding them, and he felt his cock stir. “Sir has only to ask.” She might be owned property of the club, and so one would expect her behavior to be spot on, but she had hit the perfect mix of service and desire to please with her words.
He studied her a moment, while he tipped up and slowly drained the glass in his hand. Head bowed, light hair drawn back from her face, she was draped in vinyl straps. Barely an inch wide, they covered little of her body, giving only the barest nod to access denial. He glanced around, seeing several other individuals in the same costume and came to the quick conclusion they were uniforms for the service subs.
She waited patiently, standing in a pose familiar to him, legs slightly apart, allowing for a palm to easily slip between her thighs, arms crossed behind her back, palms cupping the opposite elbow, arching her back so her breasts lifted invitingly. Neck bent, gaze never rising above his knees, her eyes were open, not denying him the beauty of her offered submission, not closing everything out and rejecting her own needs. She was comfortable, accepting…willing.
“Is it permitted to touch you?” This hadn’t been covered in the protocol conversation, and he didn’t remember reading anything about service subs in the twelve-page nondisclosure agreement he’d faxed back to the club yesterday.
Her chin dipped, stretching and elongating the back of her neck, creating beautiful lines of strain as her vertebra showed underneath the skin. The movement was slight and wordless, but the offer seemed clear.
“What’s your name, little one?” With Aurelie, he had found her responses enhanced when he acknowledged her person, rather than using pet names. When they visited the clubs in Paris, he had listened to how the Doms spoke to their subs, finding a broad range of address standards, everything from the proper name, as he used, to words intended to play into a sub’s need to be humiliated. Clearly it was anything goes, and as long as it worked, he wasn’t going to argue with anyone. For him, he needed that personal connection, needed to see the person underneath the desire to feel like the scene was successful. Every recipe needed a name, as did every ingredient, and it was easier to ensure you didn’t make mistakes when you used them correctly.
“Amanda,” she responded, her voice still soft, but he watched as her chest rose and fell faster, breathing in shorter drafts of air. Arousal or concern? He closed one hand loosely, allowing his palm to cast off the chill caused by holding the glass of juice.
“Am I permitted to touch you, Amanda?” The repeat of his question, even subtly rephrased, would imply she hadn’t responded in a fashion he found pleasing, which should open her to anxiety if she truly desired to serve. That response should tell him if her verbal answer of her name heightened her anticipation of a touch, or drew the curtain back on unease at the thought. Sure enough, her breathing slowed and her chin dipped slightly. He read this as anxiety, which meant when she gifted him with her name, she definitely wanted his hands on her in some fashion.
Fingers tightening nervously on her elbows, she nodded, head dipping and raising three times before she said, “Yes, sir. Touching outside of the costume is allowed. The club’s safe word is red.”
He rewarded her immediately, reaching out to trail his heated palm down her arm to her elbow, curling his fingers around hers as he tugged them loose. She shivered as he cupped her elbow, then released her grip to bring her arm up between them, following his silent directions. Slipping his palm up her arm to her hand, he squeezed it gently before placing the glass into her grip. “Good girl, Amanda. I would enjoy another glass of the punch they offer at the juice bar. Go now, and come back quickly to me, please.”
Kevin watched carefully as he touched her, seeing the flush rising in her cheeks to match the heat of his palm on her skin, how her lips parted on an inrush of air as she breathed in her excitement. The words of praise caused her cheeks to lift slightly as he expressed his pleasure in her behavior. Then he saw the pale tip of her tongue pass across her bottom lip when she realized his directive provided her another opportunity to earn his approval. She turned and walked away, giving him a chance to view her from behind, and he liked everything he saw. Ample curves, luscious thighs, a thick braided rope of light-colored hair swaying side to side as she moved, her path straight as an arrow to the juice bar. Not his Aurelie, but she was a sub to the bone, this one.
Kevin cocked his head to one side, looking at the man standing near him at the juice bar. Different city, different club, oh-so-similar scenes. “So, tell me, Kris Clarke, where did your journey begin?”