Page 13 of Becoming
Another major change was Rebecca’s demeanor. Being a sub was buried with her past. Mistress—now a Dom—was born out of the necessity to take charge of her life again. She also had the idea to show subs in the BDSM world that what they may have thought of the lifestyle didn’t have to be so black and white. It was why she chose the pink room as her personal room. Each person she had in that room—also carefully investigated before Mistress would allow them in—saw a different side of BDSM. A side where the Submissive had just as much power as the Dominant.
The main difference between Mistress and the other Doms in the club was Mistress never had sex with her clients. Sex certainly wasn’t something she wanted to be paid for. Not to mention, she didn’t feel sexy underneath the leather. Underneath the mask. Scars still branded her back, and though the scars on her face were gone, she felt them nevertheless. Even without the sex, Mistress was the most sought-after Dominant in the club. They all wanted to be whipped, bound, and punished by Mistress. Just having her in the room was enough of a sexual experience for them.
It was enough for Rebecca to get her confidence back. Not just the dominance over others, but the success of the club. Samantha had worn her down so much, told her she was stupid so often, that she wasn’t sure she had the same business mind anymore. But with Samantha gone, everything that Rebecca touched seemed to turn to gold. That’s not to say she didn’t have problems. She most certainly did. At times it took double therapy sessions with her aunt just to pause the nightmares.
As the years wore on, Rebecca became tired of the tedium of her life. Time in the pink room did nothing for her anymore. She merely went through the motions with clients who never lost the novelty of being dominated by the small woman. The effect on her, though, wasn’t the same as it was before. With her confidence high, sexless domination over her clients got… boring. Unfortunately, as of yet, no one had intrigued her enough to go down that road again. Or, perhaps, she was lying to herself about being too scared to bring sex into it. What if she found out that she would be just as bad as Samantha if she let herself go?
In order to suppress temptation, Mistress closed the pink room, indefinitely. Clients and staff both were disappointed in the decision, but her staff was astute enough not to argue with Mistress. Clients begged, threatened, and begged some more for Mistress to keep seeing them. However, per their binding contract, they had no choice but to let her go. They were more than welcome, however, to choose a new Dom if they wanted to continue their patronage at the club.
These days, Mistress stayed in her office, high above the action, watching. She was getting pretty good at determining which room clients would request. There had been only one time she had been surprised by the gender choice of one sub, but fine-tuning her observance was easy enough. Mistress knew every name, every career, every fetish, every family member of every single person that stepped foot in her building. She refused married people, but allowed couples. She wasn’t in the business of tearing families apart. Mistress preferred showing them exactly what they had with each other.
Mistress picked up a file and flipped it open. The club was hosting a bachelorette party—she checked the clock—starting about now. She had dossiers on everyone attending that party. Each had to sign non-disclosure contracts, fill out applications, and give two forms of ID. It was an arduous task, but it helped Mistress filter out those who weren’t serious about the lifestyle or who wanted to use it as a way to hurt others.
She plucked a sheet from the file. Miranda Loring, bride-to-be—and frequent customer with her fiancé—had submitted a request for time with someone other than her groom and vice-versa. That won’t do, Mistress concluded. They just need a push in the right direction. In lieu of a surrogate, she arranged for the couple to be placed together without them knowing. Blindfolds were wonderful tools if used correctly.
She stood and walked to the window that overlooked the main room and VIP section. One change Mistress loved after her takeover was how diverse the group always was. Yes, they had rules, but in the end, every type of person you could think of could be here at any given time. As long as you followed the guidelines, your race, gender, sexuality, body type, didn’t matter.
Her breath caught, and her chest tightened when she saw one particular club-goer. This was someone she had never seen before, and part of her wished she had missed seeing the tall woman now. Her body’s response was too intense to be good for her. With a shaking hand, she pressed the intercom button on the wall next to her.
“Yes, Mistress?”
“Bring me the files on the entire Loring party.” At least her voice hadn’t betrayed the chaos she felt inside. Less than a minute later, there was a knock at her door. “Enter.”
“The files, Mistress.”
“Thank you, Carlie.” Once she was alone again, she began sifting through the files. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” she told herself. It didn’t stop her. Nothing stopped her until she came to the one photo she was looking for. A scan of the attached copy of the driver’s license gave her the information she was looking for. “Cassidy Giles. Oh God, she’s only twenty-five!”
Mistress tossed the file aside, determined to forget about the incredibly hot, tall, androgynous woman. She couldn’t care less how the black jeans made that ass look. Or how the crisp, white button-up shirt was unbuttoned dangerously low. And, she certainly wasn’t thinking about fisting her hands in that short, dark hair. Nope.
“She’s too young, Rebecca,” she said aloud in an attempt to remind herself to get the gorgeously handsome… “Stop!” Too young. Too young. Too young. She groaned in frustration when that wasn’t working. She walked away from the window, paced for a moment, before sitting back at her desk. She tapped her pale pink tipped nails on the surface, then let curiosity get the best of her.
Mistress activated the monitors in front of her. She had a view of almost every single inch of the club. Except for the private rooms, of course. Those sessions were recorded on an encrypted server that purged itself every forty-eight hours unless a specific order came from the Mistress herself. As with all the cameras around the place, it was purely a safety measure.
But, what she was looking for right now, had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with her aroused libido. “You’re playing with fire,” she told herself, wondering when she started talking to herself. She scanned the area, stopping at the VIP section. “Ah, there you are, Cassidy Giles.” A couple of clicks from the mouse had the camera zooming in on that exquisite face. “Jesus, you’re gorgeous.”
She sat back in her chair with a huff. “Carlie!”
“Yes, Mistress?”
Good lord, does she stand right outside my door?
“Send a shot of Fireball to table one in the VIP section. From me.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
The sprite of a woman disappeared as fast as she appeared, and Mistress shook her head. “Okay, so you sent her a drink. That’s it. Your room is closed, and you will not open it for someone who is young enough to be your…” She stopped talking and banged her head on her desk. “Anyone who makes you talk to yourself should not be messed with,” she muttered.
As if it were on a string, her head lifted in time to see Cassidy Giles look around, raise the glass in salute, then slam back the amber liquid. Consequences be damned, Mistress opened her desk drawer and took out the one thing she never thought she would use again.
MISTRESS BARELY RESISTED making a fool out of herself by touching Cassidy’s hair as she passed by. In her defense, she only wanted to know if it was a soft as it looked. She managed to stick to her task of putting her pink card on the table, bringing attention to it with a tap of her fingertip and walking away. She never looked back to see if Cassidy followed her. Truth be told, part of her hoped she didn’t. A much bigger, more horny part, was desperate that she did. That she was considering actually having sex with this woman surprised the hell out of Mistress. She never wanted to have sex with paying clients. Technically, Miranda Loring is paying. It was a thin technicality, but one Mistress held on to.
She entered the room painted in a soft pink hue for the first time in months. Since no one was allowed in here, nothing had changed. It was minimally but tastefully decorated with the finest furniture, carpet, and accessories. Mistress wanted the ambiance to portray safety and peacefulness. Some may say that was ironic, but she thought it made perfect sense.
Once inside the room, you found two high-back, pink chairs that faced each other. A door on the left led you into a full bathroom complete with a shower and soaking tub. Further in the room was the pièce de résistance. A colossal California King four poster bed. It was perfect for bondage. Not far from the bed stood an armoire full of implements of pleasure and pain. Mistress’s heart rate spiked when she thought of using those things on Cassidy Giles. If she showed up.
Determined not to get her hopes up, Mistress sat in one of the chairs that faced the doorway. Her posture—straight back, feet crossed at the ankles, and hands clasped together in her lap—gave off a relaxed, yet commanding, vibe. Inside, she was anxious and aroused. A feeling she deliberately avoided for years. It left her feeling a bit off-kilter.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she laid that card down on Cassidy’s table, but it seemed like hours. Just as she was about to give up, there was a knock at the door. For the first time, Mistress was speechless. She opened her mouth to say something and nothing happened. Apparently—luckily—that didn’t stop Cassidy from entering.