“Is Katie here?”
The pretty woman leans over the counter and peers into the club. “She is with Joker.”
“Fuck,” I mumble, and she giggles, offering up an alluring smile with a twinkle in her eye.
Don’t think it, J.
She is too fucking young.
“I’m off in fifteen if you want to play, Sir J.”
Humored by her assertions, I grin. “I’ll meet you at the bar.”
“I’ll be ready.” She winks. “My name is…”
I drown it out because it doesn’t matter. She wants to sign over consent; I’ll do the deed. It won’t be nice, but it will provide the release I need.
The regulars all know I don’t play sweet.
I am Master Jynx and have developed quite a reputation for presenting a challenge to the most seasoned participants.
I disappear deep into the club, past the exhibitionists engaging in any number of sport sex shows to the dimly lit mahogany bar that serves as the dividing line to the private rooms.
I have never been much for performance. I don’t need the approval of the crowd to find the arousal. I can do it and have done it in the past, but it isn’t my forte.
I prefer one-on-one.
No double kneeling subs or sharing with another Dominant.
No swinging. No gray areas.
Just one malleable girl and me.
I like it clean and neat, just like my beach house on the coast of South Carolina—sterile, uninvolved, non-committal. Crisp lines of folded linens. Cords tucked away. Shirts starched. Everything organized.
Maddening to many, but the only way I know how to exist. I cannot breathe in disarray. I function just fine in chaos, as I do at my grandparents’ place, but I prefer a system of order, including recognizable rules with self-imposed boundaries that I refuse to cross.
I was wild once…years ago.
I’m recovering without any need to relapse into my reckless youth—not the addiction which surfaced from being wild.
Alcohol is doled out incrementally while the crux remains in the leather I am about to palm like it is a part of my body—like I was born with a twelve-foot bullwhip in my hand.
The bartender provides my order—the same as it is every week—and the smell of bourbon hits my nose with a pleasurable numbing sensation. The agony is all there—between the scent and the lip—where the source flourishes. The taste, swallow, and subsequent manifestation in my body are far less important factors in determining a decent consumption.
Just like in slaves.
I genuinely don’t want whatever hostess girl’s name is, but perhaps the sub standing in the corner talking to her girlfriend and eyeing me is worth considering.
I check my watch, knowing time is of the essence, demanding and depleting far too quickly to properly scope out the club. I don’t want to foster any notions the young hostess might have. The thirty-some older woman understands better than most. At the very least, she’ll listen without needing to learn.
I never claimed to be a teacher.
Polishing off my two shots, I give her a subtle nod and grab the keys sitting beside my empty glass. I casually stride over to the sub decked out in her best fetish gear.
She needs this night as much as I do.
We’ll find a mutually beneficial high and enjoy the time well spent. Tomorrow morning there won’t be any need for a phone call or a text message because we understand this isn’t long-term. This is a brief moment without any strings attached.
I demand.
She supplies.
And it’s just that easy.
I brush her auburn hair from her shoulder and whisper, “Room six if you’re interested.”
“And if I’m not, will you stay there alone all night?”
“Hardly.”
She blushes, knowing it’s true. My parents’ genetics blessed me. This face….this body…they aren’t ever lonely. But I often am.
Very alone by choice.
Her friend disappears into the fray as she inquires, “What are you into?”
“Discomfort.”
Her eyes drop to my side. “What’s in the bag?”
“Room six.”
With the random Jezebel suspended on the St. Andrew’s cross, I thrash the whip to her backside for one final round. Her pale skin marked up nicely in the backless frame of her harness. Pinked with a few red splotches from my overindulgence, she wasn’t kidding when she walked into the room and declared herself a pain slut.
I’ve heard it so many times.
But it is rare to find such an accommodating sub who truly means those two words.
Many say it; few prove it.
Nine times out of ten, I end up with a safeword being called. I always abide by the limitations, respecting boundaries.
If I desired to possess my own girl, I’d push her further, but most of the club subs aren’t seeking a push—they’re searching for a rich playboy with a kink and hoping to take him home with a ring for the win.
Ignoring my arousal, I unhook her wrists and ankles. “Thank you for the night.”
“You’re welcome, Master J,” she replies. “I’m the one fortunate enough to have had the experience with you tonight before your departure.”
I have eight weeks left, which feels like eternal hell. But I get it; I don’t ever play with the same girl twice. Packing my precious implement into the satchel, I snicker, “Word got around.”
“It did. You’re coveted,” she laughs, draping the sheer black cape over her shoulders. “I understand not to expect anything more.”
“I don’t take it further.”
“I’m aware,” she says, smiling. “Be careful out there. Girls are looking to score a cock.”
“Nah,” I reply, shaking my head. “They’re looking to get a rock.”
“Fair enough.” She extends her hand. “If you’re ever in the Midwest, give me a call.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’m based out of Kansas, but I travel all over the States with work.”
You’re talking too much, J.
Shut the fuck up before this turns into coffee, pancakes, and bacon at a diner.
“What do you do?”
Her blue eyes flicker in the lights. “I do product showcasing for various companies. We design, implement, and maintain window dressing and product display on a broad scale level.”
“You own it?”
“I do,” she informs. “If you’re ever in the neighborhood and looking for some willing flesh, hit me up. Dissolving is good.”
I’m humbled by her offer of a repeat, even if I will never take her up on it. “I should be going.”
We shake hands and part ways.
Cold. Delivery. System.
It works.
In the club, I spot Katie taking a public lashing from Joker. Damn shame. She’s better than he deserves. We’ve been drinking and flirting for weeks but never had a session. I had my fingers crossed that Katie would happen tonight.
I pass by the nameless hostess, grinding on some guy’s lap. She glances over and drunkenly grins. I barely make it outside when I hear her yell, “Jynx!”
I briefly close my eyes and sigh, knowing I wasn’t fast enough to escape her jealous wrath. I reluctantly turn around. “… Yes?”