Los Angeles, one year later…

A hard palm met quivering flesh with a resounding crack.

Immediately after that, a throaty moan, equal parts pleasure and pain, rose in the air, further thrilling the rapt audience.

Dressed in snug black jeans and a fitted shirt, the Dom leaned over the naked submissive bound by wrists and ankles to the padded A-frame bench. His chest pressed against her back as his fingers sank into her thick wavy hair. The crowd around the red velvet roped-off station held their collective breath as he spoke softly in her ear.

“Have you learned your lesson yet, Cassie?”

The pretty blonde writhed in her restraints. Her trembling limbs and the dampness between her spread thighs which the Dom stroked with slow, steady movements revealed how aroused she was by his attention.

“No, Master,” came her soft, panting reply. “I’ll need a dozen more, maybe two, and, most definitely, your cock deep inside me to drive the lesson home.”

At the audacity of her response, murmurs and startled gasps rose from the spectators, but her Dom laughed, the low, deep sound filled with delight.

His hand fisted in the glossy mass of loose curls and he turned her head until his lips grazed hers. “Two dozen sounds about right, naughty girl,” he murmured.

“Then will you fuck me, Flynn? I mean, Master?”

“As tempting as you are, baby, how could I resist?” He took her mouth in a kiss so smoldering one observer fanned herself. It went on for several heartbeats before he broke away and kissed a path down her spine. His fingers left her pussy and slid up to smooth over her pink cheeks, spreading wide to squeeze and massage briefly. “But first things first.”

Another swat landed, and still another, as the Dom gave his cheeky sub the more she asked for.

Midway through, he traded his hand for a flexible leather paddle. The rosy tint blooming across the woman’s creamy skin growing more vivid with each subsequent swat, her ardent cries now soaring to the rafters.

Standing front row for the erotic scene, Esme Spade bit her lip to keep her moans from escaping. The connection between the two and their chemistry was off the charts. When his hand arched high and came down crisply, she imagined herself bound to the bench and receiving the hard but intensely sensual spanking. Her eyes drifted shut with the next resonant thwack and an image of Andrew standing behind her filled her mind.

No. He was gone, and she had to face the truth.

Forcing her eyes open, she caught a flash as the Dom’s hand drew back for another swat. Squinting to focus, Esme realized it was the light glinting off the gold ring on his third finger. She glanced at the submissive’s left hand where it clutched the padded grip on the armrest. She wore a similar band paired with a large, sparkling diamond solitaire.

Reflexively, Esme stroked her thumb across her bare finger. When she finally took off her wedding rings and tucked them safely away in her jewelry box, the groove left behind had taken months to fade. That had been two years ago, three years after her life had been so abruptly and violently altered. Even now the pain of losing Andrew was like a knife in her chest, the emptiness left behind enduring. But five years was a long time to be without a man, especially for a submissive, which is why she was here, like it or not.

Glancing back at the scene, she watched the Dom continue to paddle his errant sub. It differed from before, however. Though the paddle fell just as firmly, he interspersed caresses between every few swats. He rubbed gently, squeezing and soothing the skin he had systematically made a bright rosy pink, or dipped his fingers between her spread thighs and glided the tips through the wet folds glistening with the proof of her desire. This new approach caused the sub to writhe helplessly in her cuffs and elicited cries which had nothing to do with punishment.

Esme closed her eyes again, trying to quell her surging need and the pervasive longing. She could block out the intimate images, but not the sensual sounds or the smells surrounding her. The rich, earthy scent of leather, the lemon oil they used to polish the wooden equipment and bring a shine to the thousands of square feet of gleaming hardwood floor, and beneath it, the pungent, yet heady smell of sweat and sex. Rather than unpleasant, the mix was intoxicating and stirred the long-suppressed cravings inside her.

Most would consider coming here, week after week, watching but never playing, an exercise in self-torture. At least three full months had passed since her first tentative visit with Pax. In the beginning, she hadn’t wandered far from his side, but after a few return trips, he’d deliberately distanced himself so that others would approach her. As he predicted, both men and women bombarded her with offers, including a few male submissives who mistook her for an aloof Domme. This had shaken her a little, but she didn’t correct them. One Mistress who had plans to tie her face up over a wooden barrel and use a braided quirt on her breasts and pussy then lick every inch of her to ease the pain had been very insistent, blatantly graphic—obviously—and scared the bejeezus out of her. Esme had politely declined, then run like hell. Topping a man or submitting to a woman wasn’t her kink. Surrendering to a dominant man was and always had been, but she turned them down too, not yet ready to do more than watch.

By coming here, submerged in the lifestyle, she could live vicariously through others and fill a small fraction of the emptiness inside her, which was enough for now.

At least she had thought so until she came across this scene with Flynn and Cassie. Many of the players had the kink down pat but lacked the emotional connection, and when Esme encountered it, like now, which wasn’t that often, it sparked bittersweet memories, intense envy, and it hurt.

The Dom’s deep voice counting out the twenty-fourth stroke penetrated Esme’s thoughts. She opened her eyes to see he’d dropped the paddle and moved to the end of the bench. His fly was open and his hard cock in hand—impressive in both length and girth. Master Flynn didn’t waste time with further foreplay; the entire spanking scene had been leading up to this moment after all. He bent over the woman strapped to the bench, his upper body draped the length of her much smaller frame, covering and enveloping her. Now, when he spoke in her ear, his words were solely for her. The observers leaned in to catch the thread of their conversation, a few outwardly frustrated when they couldn’t.

While they shared this intimate moment, his hand slipped between his hips and her rosy red bottom. From her vantage point, which was to the side of the bench, she had a direct view of what he was doing. Compelled to look away from the intimacy of the moment, she reminded herself they’d chosen a station in the vast public playroom for a reason, which by its very existence invited onlookers. Still, it seemed intrusive, and she wanted to look away, but his command of both his reaction and his submissive mesmerized her. She couldn’t look away not even when he stroked the head of his cock through the seam of her pussy, teasing but not entering just yet.

Esme picked up the cadence in his voice, how it rose in pitch toward the end, as if in question, but not the words.

“Oh, yes, Master, please,” Cassie pleaded softly to his unknown query.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, then his masculine hum of pleasure joined hers as his hips thrust forward and he entered her at last.

This wasn’t enough for him, evidently, because his hand curved beneath her jaw and he turned her mouth to his and went in for a smoldering kiss. Esme’s heart ached at the tender yet passionate scene playing out before her eyes.

This dominant and submissive had something special. Where one found joy in control and guided with a firm yet caring hand, cultivating the pleasure found in surrender, the other experienced bliss in yielding and in doing so, giving pleasure in return.

She’d had that with Andrew, as well as trust, respect, and love. Missing him and knowing she may never again experience a moment like the one being played out before her eyes, made her heart ache painfully. She wanted to look away, to run and hide, but also to punch, kick, and throw a childish tantrum, screaming why at the top of her lungs, asking the unanswered question as she had so many times before.

Unable to watch anymore, Esme turned, winding her way through the throng of onlookers, eager to move on to the next station, rather than stay for the big finish. This scene was too close to home and much too painful. As she broke through the crowd standing four and five deep, she felt a shiver of awareness shoot up her spine.

Twisting back, she scanned the faces, sensing something. They were all facing front, mesmerized by the scene—except one. On the far side of the station, on the outer fringe of people, a man stood with his arms crossed over his chest, body angled in her direction, ice-blue eyes intently focused on her, not the spanking happening on the bench nearby.

She’d met him when she’d joined, an interview required with the Master Dom for all potential members before being granted membership. Eric Dupree was intimidating and not just because he was huge. Most of the club Masters were; they seemed to grow them bigger here than back East.

After that first meeting, she’d avoided him like the plague. Wanting to keep a low profile and go unnoticed. Today, for some reason, she’d caught his attention.

What to do?

Deciding not hanging around to find out why was the best bet, she dipped her head politely—snubbing any dominant, let alone the one in charge was never a good idea—then got lost in the crowd, not glancing back to assess his reaction, either.

On a Saturday night, most of the membership turned out to play. Esme used that to her advantage, working her way to the back of the room. To further avoid the Master Dom’s potential pursuit, she squeezed into an especially large group gathered at a station. She pretended to watch the scene with the others, but instead, kept her sidelong gaze fixed on the people making the circuit around the stations. She’d hide out here for a few minutes then make her way up front and call it a night.

But a sound reminiscent of the prize wheel at the church bizarre as a kid, made her turn her head and look. She’d have to be blind to miss the man strapped to the eight-foot upright wheel as his Domme spun him slowly upside down and sideways. He was naked except for the steel cage enclosing his tender bits. Esme didn’t have the anatomy, but even she winced on his behalf. Though it wasn’t something she’d ordinarily watch—hell, it wasn’t something she’d ever seen—she couldn’t avoid it while wedged deep in the crowd.

It also meant she couldn’t escape easily when the scene took a turn, and the sadistic Mistress halted the wheel, hung weights from the poor man’s balls, then sent him spinning slowly again. From the groans emanating from the sub each time she flicked her crop on the weights, or in an upward slap directly between his spread legs making him squeal and sweat, he was enjoying his torment.

To each his own. And while she accepted that motto, it didn’t keep her face from flushing hot with squeamish embarrassment and a good deal of sympathy. She didn’t doubt it glowed like a beacon, rivaling Rudolph’s bright nose that foggy Christmas Eve. If not for the spinning wheel of torture, which even six feet plus Master Eric wouldn’t be able to see over, her face would have led the Master Dom to her location like a beacon.

By the time she collected her shoes, keys, and phone from the women’s locker room it was past midnight, and she’d convinced herself she’d imagined it. If Master Eric wanted something from her, he had a dozen dungeon monitors to help find her, as well as a slew of other dominants and over two hundred submissives who would narc on her in an instant.

Eschewing the lounge, the live music, and the free drinks—two per night came with the membership dues. That was the limit, or the dungeon was off limits. Esme wasn’t getting her money’s worth because she never partook. Instead, she skirted past the dance floor and bar and headed to the lobby. As usual, she didn’t make eye contact with either the receptionist or the security guard on duty up front.

This past month since Pax had gone on assignment, she came and went alone. She’d been lucky his job hadn’t demanded him before now. As unobtrusively as possible, she watched, absorbed what she could, but didn’t play. Then she made her sad trek to her modest Northridge home—the price of which would have bought three times the house back in Baltimore—and continued her dismal solitary existence.