Opulence (12 page)

I
prowl around the club in Florence. I need a release. Something warm to tease, taunt, titillate, tame, and tear up. It is not only the lifestyle I portray, it is truly who I am. It has never been my MO to waste time chatting up some romance novel junkie, saying all the things I know she wants to hear to get laid.

That is why I came here. It’s not one of my places. I won’t lose the respect of my girls, or my clients.

Tonight, I seek strange.

I’ve come to exactly the right kind of place. I know this because I planned it. I plan everything. I take in the leather clad wait staff with piercings and tattoos—some of whom are holding whips—this is a no-last-name kind of scene. All fetishes are welcome here. My eye catches on a tall redhead with a nose ring that’s chained to her nipple ring—totally exposed, for all to see.

Make that welcome, wet, and waiting.

Nothing good happens on
today’s date. Hell, nothing good ever happens these days, aside from orgasms and creating desire. If not for causing the slow buildup to release, and the inevitable double-edged climax, I would feel nothing. But then, usually I like feeling nothing. For too many years, I felt too much. Rage, sadness, jealousy, obsession, more rage...it was fucking exhausting, caring that much.

Nowadays, I am a shark, coldly calculating without allowing anything to touch me on a personal level. Ironically, this seems to make me irresistible to the opposite sex. It also makes me notice things that most people are too nervous, too excited, too full of desire, or scared to notice.

In one corner of the club, there’s a man whose facial expression gives him away as a first-timer to the BDSM scene—eyebrows raised, wide shoulders cocked back defensively, and a scowl on his face that will likely keep any subs from approaching him. The way his eyes flit from side to side, it’s as if he’s trying to figure out how he got here, and what the hell is going on. I follow his gaze, more slowly and casually, expecting someone who works here to greet him, at least help the poor bastard feel welcome. But no one does.

As a businessman, it bothers me. But as an anonymous club patron—which I am tonight, I remind myself—I couldn’t give less of a fuck.

I saunter over to the bar, sit down, and order a drink. Manhattan, with rye whiskey—the only kind of Manhattan that counts. When my drink is in my hand, I turn and continue scouting the crowd for talent.

The majority have not picked their poison yet, and the ones who have are clearly all about being dominated. It seems like the place is crawling with prey, but not so many hunters. Good, I like those odds.

The ‘out of his scene’ guy comes up to the bar and sits right next to me. He orders a glass of wine, cheap wine. I almost snort into my drink. Rookie move. Feeling generous, I turn to him and offer my hand. “I’m Sabato, how are you?”

Immediately, his shoulders go up. “Dude, I like pussy. Okay? I’m not sure what the fuck about me screams I’m willing to swing that way, but—”

“It’s definitely the clothes.”

“
Excuse
me?” His attitude is one I am not accustomed to. But then, after all, this is not one of my usual haunts.

I decide to cut the guy a break, since he’s obviously clueless. “Look around the room.” I gesture vaguely with my drink. “Tell me, what do you see?”

He shakes his head, looking confused. “Pussy.” He snorts, shooting me a glare. “And a bunch of guys who want to tag my ass.”

My patience is very quickly running out. “And, what else?”

He shakes his head again, more loosely this time. The wine must be getting to him already. What a light weight.

“Honestly, man, I feel like any second, half of these guys are gonna bust out doing the fucking YMCA. I mean....” He gestures agitatedly around the room. “You got the cowboys, the cops, the gay bikers—fuck, we’re just missing the Indians in here.”

I almost want to laugh, because he is right. “And if they see you checking them out, wearing...what you’re wearing...how do you think they will approach you?”

He shrugs, looking offended again. I signal the bartender to bring him another wine, before he really gets his skirt in a twist.

“What the hell is wrong with my clothes?”

“Nothing,” I tell him. “If you’re going to a different kind of club.” I gesture to his shiny, black silk shirt. “I mean, you have your
dancing shoes
,” I can’t hold back a mocking smirk, “that match your cute little
dancing shirt
.”

“Fuck you, dude.” His eyebrows push together, and he stares at me for a few seconds like he’s seriously thinking about kicking my ass. Then, slowly, he smiles. Shakes his head. Holds his hand out for me to shake. “Zandor Steel.”

 I take his hand and shake it. I like a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously.

“So, what brings you here tonight, Zandor?”

He shrugs. “Just thought I’d wander in. I’m not from around here, so....”

My eyes widen in mock surprise. “Really?”

“Fuck you twice,” he laughs.

“Yeah, see,” I make a tsk-ing noise. “You can’t say that kind of thing in here, or one of these guys will take you up on it.”

“Oh,” he nods. “Good point. I meant ‘Go fuck
yourself
, twice.”

I find myself laughing, too, in spite of what day it is. It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten how refreshing it is to have people tell you to fuck off to your face. Eyes narrowing thoughtfully, I take out my phone and send a quick, subtle text to have this Zandor Steel looked into.

When I look up, I see him staring at me, appraising me with a certain shark-like look to him. My shoulders straighten. I shouldn’t have let my guard down so easily.

“I don’t know if I should be taking your advice, bro,” he says. “Doesn’t look like you’re any closer to slaying poon tonight than I am.”

I like the ease of this conversation, but I don’t like the innuendo. I nod to a petite platinum blonde woman who sits across the room, waiting for notice. In a blink, she is at my side. I nod toward the floor, and she drops to her knees in front of me, ready to service my every wish—in the middle of the club—if I ask.

“Well, fuck,” Zandor says, eyes wide. “My bad. You want to be my Yoda man, I will be your Padawan. Gladly. Just show me how to use the Force like
that
.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he looks like he expects me to. I shrug. Shake my head.

The look on his face is incredulous. “
Star Wars
?”

“Let me guess,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “It’s an American thing.”

“Actually, it’s kind of the most epic movie series of all...you know what, never mind.” He nods “Carry on, oh wise one.”

I gesture down to the petite blonde. “What is your flavor?”

“My thing is pussy,” he repeats, like that is helpful. “Warm, willing pussy, in all varieties.”

I sigh with impatience. “No, Zandor. You’re in a
bondage club
. I mean, what is your scene? What fetish are you into? Are you a top, a bottom, a group player? Dominance is not for everyone, no matter how....” I gesture vaguely at his physique. “Physically suited for it they may appear to be. Perhaps you yearn to submit. If that is the case, I can recommend some very talented dommes in the area.”

Zandor Steel looks at me like I am deranged in some way—even though he is the one with the porn star name, who is wearing a ‘fuck me, daddy’ shirt.

“Bro, I just like to fuck and not have the bitch so enchanted or fucking needy that she pulls out the old sexual harassment card, trying to teach me some fucking lesson. I’m not into really fucked up. I’ll spank an ass and play with some toys.”

“So, no blood play? Animal transformation? Figging?”

“
Fuck
no.” He looks vaguely nauseated at the thought—even though, I would bet good money he doesn’t know what any of those things mean. “That’s sick.”

“It’s not about mental health or sickness,” I tell him, more patiently than I should. “It’s about
control
. Losing it, and feeling free. Or maybe taking it, for the first time in your life. Every day, in all aspects of our lives, control is what we seek. Yet most people have no idea how to control themselves, and they don’t try. They are slaves to their urges, instead of the other way around.”

A feeling prods me then, something similar to guilt. What right do I have to be preaching to this stranger about self-control? After all, what am I doing here tonight?

But Zandor seems to consider—genuinely consider—what I’ve told him. “Not sure if you’re being a dick, or sincere, but as I said before.” He points to the blonde at my feet, who is still silently, patiently waiting. “I want something simple. Meat and potatoes. I want ass that goes away satisfied when I’m done and doesn’t sit outside my door banging on it, begging for cock.”

I can’t help but laugh at the visual image he’s created. “Begging is also a very big part of this scene, my friend. I wonder if you wouldn’t be more comfortable at a nice trucker bar. I hear there is one down by the gas station, near the freeway.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he says, rolling his eyes. “At least there, no one would have a chance at knowing who I was. Ever since my family came into some money, that shit has seriously fucked up my game. There’s no such thing as ‘anonymous’ or ‘no strings attached’ anymore. Now, they’re telling me I need to ‘lay low?’ That ain’t gonna happen. So, like I said, teach away.”

I’m intrigued by his story, and want to know more. New money is like blood in the water for a shark like me. But I’m also starting to like this guy, in spite of myself. So I indulge him, for the moment, and play mentor.

“You have to keep feelings out of it,” I look down at the blonde, finally giving her the attention she craves. She is a textbook sub, willing to wait as long as it takes—because waiting for approval only makes her wetter. I point her to Zandor, and she crawls over, instantly transferring her attention—and adoration—on him. “The only thing you ask of her is obedience, until the game is done. Sexual obedience. Release must be earned, and given like a gift. It cannot be taken.” Zandor slowly smiles, staring at the blonde’s tits. “I
definitely
like control.”

I nod to the redhead with the nose-to-nipple piercings, and she walks over to stand before me.

“Is Cindy to your liking, Sir?”

“She’s hot,” Zandor says. “So, yeah. I’d like to show her a good time.”

“No,” I correct him. “You want to take pleasure from her. In return, if she does exactly as you instruct, she will be rewarded.”

I look down at the girl. “Present yourself.”

She does as I say, without question. Whether they know my name or not at this place, it doesn’t matter. They obviously know enough to tell a Dom when they see one.

Leaning back on her heels, Cindy widens her legs slightly, clasping her hands behind her back. The position causes her breasts to jut out, pressing her nipples out against the sheer fabric of her costume.

“You see how she is dressed?” I ask Zandor. “She is wearing lace, not leather. She will be a good partner for your first time. But make sure you agree to the rules, between the two of you, before anything happens. Her presentation shows her desires. She wants to be treated like a lady, but she needs for you to be in control. Like you, she is not so very experienced.”

“What?” Zandor looks at me skeptically. “What do you mean? How can you possibly know that?”

I gesture for the blonde to leave us. “Go over there and wait for your master to claim you, Cindy.”

Immediately, she goes back to where she was sitting before, across the room.

“Everything is in the rules,” I tell him. “It’s part of the world we live in, part of the scene. That is the kind of woman who wants a stranger to spank her and fuck her, but still wants the illusion of romance. She needs someone who wants to dominate her full time, and take care of her. If she asked for my opinion, I would have told her to go somewhere else. This is a place for temporary engagements. Whereas this one,” I point to the redhead, who is smiling at me with open invitation. “Is a submissive of opportunity. She wants to lose control, for an hour...a weekend. But she is experienced enough to be comfortable in the scene, which tells me that she will be looking for something...special. A singular experience she can tuck away and revisit later, in her private moments.”