Chores consumed her day on Saturday. After cleaning the house and running a bazillion errands including grocery shopping, her least favorite task of all, she kicked off her shoes and collapsed on her living room couch. One at a time, she propped her aching feet on a stack of throw pillows and lay back on several more in need of a nap, several glasses of wine, and a quiet night in.

Who was she fooling? With Pax gone and having sworn off the club until he returned and could run interference with scary-intense, cruel Doms like Carlos and yummy-intense, near-perfect Doms like Master Finnegan, every night would be a quiet night in.

As she lay there, thinking of mesmerizing green eyes, the stillness of the empty house became deafening. Her grunt broke the silence when Phineas, her twenty-pound tabby landed in the middle of her stomach. Unconcerned with her pain, he walked forward and sat on her chest, meowing loudly.

“Hungry, Phin?”

He stared at her and blinked.

She returned his look, then sat slowly upright as the answer to what had been bugging her since last night became clear.

He meowed in outrage at being rudely pushed off his perch, but Esme scooped him up, a hand beneath each front leg, hefting him up until they were face to face.

“No wonder they looked familiar,” she whispered. Master Finnegan’s eyes were the same shade of green as her cat’s. “I wonder if his friends call him Finn, for short, too.” The big, intimidating Master who had to outweigh her kitty ten times over probably wouldn’t like having the same nickname as her feisty, finicky, overweight cat.

She found it hilarious. Hugging him to her chest, she flopped back and laughed, imagining introducing the two. Twin sets of green eyes would size each other up, both likely unimpressed with the other, especially the fuzzy-faced feline.

Phin had eventually warmed to Andrew, after two years of narrow-eyed glares and warning tail twitches whenever he got close, even in passing. Then, when he didn’t come home, Phin seemed to grieve as much as she did.

When her amusement faded, her surly fella seemed to recognize why and nuzzled his head against her cheek, purring loudly.

“Yeah, I miss him too, buddy. And Pax.” Ryan was the only male Phin liked, but it hadn’t come easy for him, either.

“Possessive much?” she muttered as she scratched his favorite spot behind his ear. He shut his eyes and leaned into the petting, much the way a sub did when her Dom stroked her. The thought turned her mind back to the club, and the other Finn.

If she went tonight, there was no guarantee he’d be there, especially since she’d never seen him before last night. Besides, he’d shown no interest, other than doing his duty. Maybe he had a submissive, already. The good ones usually did.

Phin meowed at her distraction.

“This will be the first Saturday I haven’t gone since joining,” she told him.

She glanced at the clock. Four p.m. She was usually getting ready about this time. The lonely hours until work on Monday morning stretched out before her.

“At least I have you, Phinny,” she whispered, hugging him close and burying her face in his neck. He wiggled and squirmed until he got free, appreciating affection only on his terms. Then, he stood on his hind legs with his front paws on her chest and meowed in her face, demanding his supper.

“Okay, okay,” she muttered as she put him down. “Your obedient slave hears and obeys, Master.”

With all her running around today, his three-ounce pouch of wet food for the day was late in coming. The rest of the time he got dry food, so he looked forward to his midday treat and became vocal with his displeasure if it was delayed. Out in the kitchen, she got his bowl and ripped open the smelly and very unappetizing packet of chicken with gravy while he wound around her ankles, meowing impatiently.

A creature of habit, you could set a clock by Phin’s scheduled. He’d inhale his supper, use his kitty facilities, groom himself for twelve and a half minutes—curious one evening, and bored, she’d timed him—then he’d find a quiet corner to take his four-hour evening nap, leaving her without even him for company.

An introvert, making friends didn’t come easy for her, so she had no one to call for dinner, or to pop over for an evening of wine and chick flicks. She’d never been the type to have a girl posse. It had hit home after her husband passed how alone she really was. Andrew had been the outgoing one. Their friends were his friends.

Now, in a new city, she didn’t even have acquaintances. She wouldn’t make any, either, by moping around her house on weekends or by skipping the lounge and bar at the club which was the only social interaction she had, other than work. Not that making friends was the point of going.

While Phin wolfed down his stinky supper like it was the finest pate, she decided if she didn’t do something other than sitting on the sidelines watching the world go by, she risked becoming the lonely neighborhood crazy lady who talked to her cat, and before she knew it, life would have passed her by.

As Pax had told her so often, it wasn’t what Andrew would have wanted for her.

“What do you think, Phinny? Should I go?”

He didn’t look up from his wet food feasting.

“Not that you’ll care since you’ll be asleep, but I’ll be home by eleven, just when your night begins.”

Her mind made up, she strode across her pocket-sized, eat-in kitchen and down the short hall to the stairs at the front of her rather small house, already planning what appropriately minuscule outfit she’d wear.

Esme’s pen froze in mid-stroke when Amelia, the receptionist, who hadn’t said a word to her on any of her other visits said something she could barely make out. She thought she heard, “Master Eric wants to see you,” but that made little sense.

Maybe it was a snide comment uttered under her breath. She’d never known the girl to be overly friendly, and from what Esme had observed in a short time, she was pretty much a bitch, which in her position was surprising. One day while changing in the women’s locker room, a sub had come bursting in overwrought and in tears over something spiteful Amelia had said. Yeah, odds were on snide.

Looking up from the clipboard where she’d been signing in for the evening, the smirking grin on the other woman’s face prompted a knot of dread to form in the pit of her stomach.

“Pardon me?”

“Oh, I think you heard what I said,” she replied pithily.

The knot twisted tighter.

She glanced at the door on the far side of the lobby. Painted in the same bland color as the walls, if not for the small sign, Authorized Personnel Only, she would have never noticed it was there. The only feature in the room that told her she stood in the entryway of a BDSM club was the clerk wearing a minuscule leather club dress with matching collar and cuffs on her wrists, the former reading Decadence Submissive, showing her employee status, and the gothic double doors leading into the lounge.

When Esme didn’t respond in any other way, Amelia added impatiently, “He said as soon as you arrive.”

“Did he say what he wanted to see me about?”

“Nope,” she replied. “And he wouldn’t. Master Eric is rather tight-lipped, but I can say from experience, he wasn’t happy.” The young woman slid the clipboard out from under her hand and pulled the pen from her grasp.

Esme moved toward the door, crossing the shiny tile floor carefully in her spiked heels, she heard the girl mutter under her breath, “Esme my ass, a fake name if I ever heard one.”

She ignored her caustic remark because she wasn’t entirely incorrect.

Placing a trembling hand on the doorknob, she didn’t turn it right away, not until she took a deep, steadying breath. For the life of her, she had no clue what Master Eric wanted to speak to her about. There was the incident last night with Carlos, but she had done nothing wrong, except…

Her free hand flew to her throat. The pink bow she’d tied moments ago was still in place. Surely Master Finnegan wouldn’t have told him she’d taken it off. He’d warned her, but maybe that wasn’t enough.

Other than a brief meeting with the owner when she’d joined, she’d never spoken another word to him, and she’d hoped to keep it that way because he scared the crap out of her. Although she didn’t take part in the gossip, she couldn’t miss the talk in the women’s locker room. Master Eric was a former Navy SEAL officer, and since he had stern and commanding down pat, she didn’t doubt it for a moment. She also believed their tales that one glance from his arctic blue gaze could bring even the boldest sub to her knees, confessing her sins, and begging for forgiveness. And, as Master Dom, and owner of the club, he had the authority to order a naughty sub, even one not his own, to ride the dreaded carousel where the entire club could witness her punishment or, worse, end their membership with the stroke of his pen. They said marriage had mellowed him somewhat. Esme hoped, for her sake, this was one tidbit of gossip that proved true.

What could he want to see her about? She specifically remembered mailing the check for her monthly membership fee only last week.

“I already texted him you were here,” the receptionist warned. “I wouldn’t make him wait if I were you.”

Although she didn’t want to, she took the catty woman’s advice and entered the administration area. Like the lobby, you couldn’t tell you were in a bondage club by looking at it. Tastefully decorated in neutral tones, there wasn’t a whip or a shackle in sight. Forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other, she made her way to the door at the end of the long hall, the only one with a light on.

She peeked in, finding him working at his desk. Did she knock, clear her throat? As if sensing her presence, because she didn’t move, and she was certain she wasn’t breathing, his head came up.

Ice-blue eyes locked on her but other than that, he showed no reaction—good or bad—to indicate how this meeting would go. Waving his hand at the two chairs in front of his desk, he murmured, “Esme, please, come in and have a seat.”

Although prefaced politely, it was a command, not a request.

Her eyes on her feet which felt weighted down with lead, she moved silently across the expensive-looking area rug covering half of the gleaming hardwood floor and perched on the edge of one of the high-backed leather chairs. Done in dark cherry and burgundy accents, either Master Eric, or his designer had excellent taste. Once settled, she stared at her hands, waiting for him to start.

“I don’t bite.”

Her head snapped up.

“That’s better,” he said smoothly. “I prefer not to speak to the top of your head.”

“Yes, sir.”

He considered her for a moment then glanced down at the file open in front of him. “Your 90-day introductory period ends next week.”

She blinked. “I hadn’t realized there was an introductory period.”

“We understand membership is an investment, not only monetary but of time and personal privacy what with our extensive pre-screening process and mandatory background checks. Our goal is a safe space with active participation from all our members, unlike a gym membership which often goes unused after the first month or so. The intro period is the only time we allow month-to-month enrollment. Afterward, renewal is annual. We feel it’s only fair potential members have the chance to see if Decadence will be a good fit for them and vice versa. Master Pax pre-paid your first few months, I believe.”

“Yes, sir, but I took care of the rest. I mailed the check in last week.”

“A bit premature, perhaps.”

Oh no, that didn’t sound good.

“Have you been enjoying your time with us?”

“Oh, yes. Decadence LA is the best club I’ve ever been to.”

“I’m glad you think so. What specifically do you like about it?”

“Um, well, it’s, uh…” She forced herself to stop stammering as she searched for the right word, then blurted out, “classy, sir.”

“That is a common observation, although it’s usually not the first thing that comes to mind. Usually, it’s the diversity of the membership, the wide array of equipment, the attention to detail in the theme rooms upstairs, or the demonstrations on the main stage.”

“All of that makes Decadence special,” she agreed with an effusive nod.

“But you’ve yet to avail yourself of it, other than as an observer.” He crossed his brawny arms on top of the desk and leaned forward. Esme reacted by inching back in her seat. His brow arched, but he didn’t comment on her retreat. “You haven’t actively partaken of any amenities whether to have a drink at the bar, enjoying the live entertainment, or any of the special events, and you’ve yet to take part in a scene, either private or in the main room.”

Startled he knew so much about her activities, she wasn’t sure how to respond. So much for her efforts at staying off his radar. “I, uh, is, um, that required, sir?”

He sat back, both brows raised in surprise. “Considering this is a BDSM club and our main function is to bring people in the lifestyle together and to provide a unique play experience for those who are, it’s certainly expected.”

“Oh.”

“What do you get out of coming here, Esme? You’re a regular, at least twice a week.”

“I’m not sure it’s as frequent as that, sir.”

“It is,” he replied succinctly. “I pulled your attendance sheet. Would you like to review it?”

“No, sir. I’m sure your record keeping is accurate.”

His chair creaked as he came to his feet and slowly walked around the desk to stand in front of her. At well over six feet tall, looming over her was a more fitting description. Esme scooted back farther until her body molded against the high back leaving no room for further retreat.

“Let me be clear about something. Evasiveness annoys me.”

She swallowed not sure how to respond to his inference.

“In the three months you’ve been with us, you haven’t found a dominant to suit you, but I’m uncertain how you can know when you reject all their offers. Until recently, that is, when everyone has simply stopped asking.”

Again, she said nothing because his observation was dead on accurate.

“Your sponsor is inactive.” He twisted to pick up a sheet of paper from his desk. “Ryan Paxton sent me a last-minute email a few weeks ago. It seems his latest assignment will have him tied up for some time, perhaps months, or longer.” Done with exhibit A, he dropped it back on his desk then continued building his case against her, and she did not feel good about the imminent verdict. “How are you connected with an FBI agent?”

“He was a friend of my previous Master.”

“I see,” he murmured. “His leaving poses a dilemma. An unsponsored, uncollared submissive in my dungeon is unusual. One who refuses to play and opts only to watch is unheard of.”

“You have no other voyeurs at the club, Master Eric?”

“Plenty. Hundreds. Most of our membership likes to watch and be watched. Those who don’t lean toward exhibitionism use the second-floor rooms, or they enjoy the lounge, mingling with others, looking for a connection, whether for the night or something permanent. Again, that isn’t what you seem to want. I’m beginning to feel like a thief taking Pax’s money and am unsure I want to take yours. Our dues aren’t cheap.”

“I don’t have a problem with the fees, sir.”

He stared at her a moment. “Paralegals are better paid than I thought.”

“I can afford the membership, sir,” she said vaguely because her finances weren’t really his business. If she paid on time why did he care? “As for feeling like a thief, please don’t. I don’t feel cheated and would like to continue.”

“Why?”

Silence fell over the room as she struggled to formulate an answer. How much did she disclose of her past? Outwardly, she didn’t get much out of her membership, but it grounded her and being around others like her, even if she didn’t take part, filled some of the emptiness inside her if only for the few hours she was here.

Finally, she whispered, “I don’t know, sir.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you find an answer, and neither can any of our Masters, if you won’t let us do our part. And, unfortunately, the members have started to complain.”

That was a surprise, and it stung. “But… I don’t understand. I do my best not to bother anyone.”

“You mentioned our voyeurs. For each one who likes to watch, we have as many exhibitionists. But there’s an unwritten contract here. Everyone gets naked and vulnerable. Some may be slow to warm up, but eventually, everyone does, it evens the playing field. To have one out of over five hundred who doesn’t, who stands on the outside looking in, lurking one of them called it, has been noticed and is making them uncomfortable.” He twisted and grabbed the folder once more. “The history you gave us on your application is vague. Perhaps you can fill in the blanks which will help me decide how best you could fit in.”

He flipped through the pages as though looking for something specific.

“Your last Master was how long ago?”

“Five years, sir.”

His blue eyes narrowed on her as he frowned. “That’s a long time for a submissive to be alone. Did something happen—perhaps something traumatic—to make you so wary about playing again?”

Echoes of sounds from the day filled her head—shouts, screams, her screams, and Andrews gasping whispers—images of that day flashed before her eyes. Her pulse raced faster, and a tightness encompassed her chest. Recognizing the symptoms, she quickly slammed the door on the memories rushing forth.

Compartmentalization, her therapist called it, a finely-honed defense mechanism she’d learned to utilize to keep the trauma of her past from becoming overwhelming again. During the day, she could hold the memories at bay by firmly locking them away. Most of the time, it worked. Eric’s questions had caused a tiny crack to open.

“Where did you go?”

His voice, softer than she’d ever heard it, still made her jump. Caught in the middle of a flashback, she became flustered, struggling to recall what they’d been discussing. When she couldn’t, she asked, “I, uh… excuse me, what was your question?” Then tried hard not to cringe at her stammering.

“I asked about past trauma. That’s why you’re reluctant to play, isn’t it?”

She shook her head. “If you mean abuse, no, sir. My last Master—my husband—was very good to me, but he died unexpectedly. He was only thirty-two, and it took time for me to grieve his passing.” It wasn’t a lie, all of that happened; she just left out important details. Now she had to hope he wouldn’t get out his shovel to dig deeper.

“I’m sorry for your loss. I can see it is still very difficult to discuss.” He leaned forward and caught her chin, bringing her face up to his. “I don’t mean to be cruel when I say this, but after five years, perhaps you have more work to do.”

“He was special,” she whispered. “I loved him very much.” Also, not a lie.

“You had professional counseling?”

She nodded. “My therapist, and Pax both recommended I get back out there and start living again.”

“When was that?”

She averted her gaze. Damn dominants had the innate ability to know when a submissive was hiding something. They probed and prodded, burrowed and dug, threatened, and yes, sometimes punished, until the truth, no matter how ugly or painful, came flooding out. Once uncovered, they wanted to fix things, work on deep seated issues, drawing feelings and emotions out of a sub to help her grow. The good ones were tricky that way.

But Esme didn’t want a stranger digging into her past, ripping open old wounds, and stirring up emotions better left buried where they couldn’t hurt her anymore.

“If you keep stalling after each question, we’ll be here all night.” Said gently, but with firmness, it reminded her how he felt about evasion.

“That was two years ago.”

“Do you still see her?”

Esme shook her head. “I saw her in Baltimore.”

“You’re stuck, little subbie, and hanging out here, by yourself, watching others play will not get you unstuck.”

He held out his hand. It took a moment for her to realize he had a business card between his fingers.

She took it and flipped it over. Embossed in bold black print was the name, Valerie Thornton, LCSW, the address listed was in Long Beach.

Her gaze rose to his in question.

“Valerie is my wife and my submissive. She’s also a lifestyle friendly therapist and you can trust her to keep everything confidential. If not her, she can recommend someone else because after this long, you’re fooling yourself if you think you’re not stuck.” He closed her file, twisted, and dropped it back on the desk. “This brings me to the difficult decision about your continued membership here at the club.”

“You’d kick me out?”

He grimaced. “Not so drastic as that. Perhaps delay your full membership until you’re ready. When Pax gets back—”

“But, sir, there’s no telling how long that could be.” Tears, something she hadn’t experience for a long time, pricked her eyes. “Please. I don’t want to leave. I’ve got nowhere else to go. The public clubs are awful.”

“I agree, and don’t recommend them, but I must consider all my members in my decision.” He folded his arms over his broad chest, one hand stroking his chin as he studied her at length. “I’m willing to give you another chance,” he said at last.

“Oh, thank you.”

He held up his hand. “I have conditions, however. While I can’t insist you find a therapist, I encourage you to call Val at least. She won’t mind my revealing you have something in common. She lost her first husband, too.”

Esme wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I’ve been thinking about starting counseling again, but didn’t know with who, or where.”

“Here.”

She looked up and took the tissue he extended.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, I’m not done.”

She didn’t think she’d get off that easy. Nodding, she looked up at him and waited to see what hoop she’d have to jump through to stay.

“Sometimes you have to attack a problem to get past it, but it can be difficult on your own, especially in the lifestyle. You need a good therapist and a good dominant. The first I don’t think I can ethically require, the second I can insist upon, however. My condition during your extended probation is you find a Dom to accompany you in the dungeon or I feel I must suspend your membership until your sponsor returns.”

“Tonight?” she squeaked.

“I’m not such a hardass as that, subbie. You’ve paid for the month, I’ll allow the week you have left to find someone. I can make recommendations. A few of our members have lost partners and will know what you’re going through.”

She wrinkled her nose. A sympathetic shoulder to cry on and someone to tear open her old wounds. No, thank you.

He read her reaction adroitly. “You’ll tell me if you change your mind.” He stood, signaling their meeting had ended.

She rose too though unsteadily.

He took her arm and led her to the door. “I don’t think you should start tonight. Go home and think about what I’ve said.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That card, use it. Val may be my wife, but she’s excellent at what she does, and she’s been where you are.”

Esme doubted anyone had been where she was—ever. But she answered politely, “Thank you, sir, I will.”

He escorted her down the hall and back to the lobby. With him watching, along with the curious eyes of the nosy, bitchy Amelia, she somehow managed to hold back her tears while exiting into the late afternoon sunshine and heat of LA and Beverly Boulevard.