Page 8 of Resist
The guy on my left side now grips the woman by her wrist, she’s wincing, still ignoring his menacing stare by watching her toes intently.
“There she is.” Cecelia points in the direction of the St. Andrew’s cross on display in the middle of the open space we’re standing in. She seems to be pointing to my colleague Phoenix who is currently finishing up a flogging session on the cross.
“Phoenix?”
She nods. “Well. Thanks for the drink. I’m gonna get going.” She hooks her thumb toward Phoenix on the stage and doesn’t hesitate before she heads that way.
I cut her off. “I’ll walk you over.”
Her eyes widen like she might be scared. I hold my hands up. “Or not.”
At the same moment, the guy next to me grabs the woman by the hair and starts to drag her toward one of the corridors off the main play space. Not on my watch.
The woman thrashes her feet as she struggles against his grip, clawing at his hands. By itself, it doesn’t mean much of anything considering where we are. Sometimes people want that kind of fantasy, and Protocol provides a safe space to make some—and sometimes ordinarily dangerous desirespossible. But this doesn’t feel like something she’s consented to be a part of.
I dash to intercept them as a curious Cecelia watches on. As much as I want to spend time with her, my first responsibility is to the safety of everyone inside these walls.
“Everything okay here?” I know it’s not. I’ve only been in this role for a year, but I’m not a newcomer to sex clubs, dynamics, or fake-doms.
“Fuck off,” the man snaps, barely taking me in before he turns his attention back to the now-trembling woman in front of him being held up by the hair clutched between his white knuckles.
I close my hand over his. “You’re going to want to step away from her, and come with me.” I try not to draw attention to myself if a situation presents itself where I have to intervene in the club.
Usually, these kinds of instances are handled very discreetly. We have a peer support team who have people with skills to talk to both the offender and the harmed.
His body shakes with poorly contained rage as his hard, penetrating stare bores into my eyes.
Ignoring him, other than keeping hold of his hand so he doesn’t attempt to flee, I address the potential harmed person in this situation. As much as the urge to spin him around and make him eat concrete is tempting, it’s also my job to make sure this doesn’t escalate.
“Are you okay?”
Tears stream down her cheeks as she shakes her head.
“Is this part of a negotiated scene?”
Another shake as she whispers “No.”
My blood elevates from a simmer to a straight-up boil. Who the fuck is this man who thinks he can treat people like this? I want to punch him in the face, but that wouldn’t doanyone any good. Though I suppose it might make at least one of us feel better.
“Would you like for me to intervene?”
She has already told me she didn’t consent to this, so I don’t technically need her explicit approval to step into the situation, but I’d still like it.
“Please.” Despair in her voice and pleading in her eyes spur me forward, and now it’s me who’s struggling to contain my rage.
“Has he hurt you before?”
Slade, owner of Protocol appears to the right of the asshole whose hand I’m still holding onto and gives me an almost imperceptible head tip.
The asshole finally releases the woman’s hair, and tries to step back, but instead, hits Slade’s chest.
“No.” The terrified woman’s lips tremble. “We met online, but this is the first time we met in person.”
I stare at the man over her shoulder, instead of trying to mitigate the situation, he puffs out his chest, squaring up to me.
At this point, it’s up to my team, or the peer support team to assess whether the offender is simply ignorant and needs some lessons in consent and pre-negotiations, or if they’re actually assholes.
This guy is clearly the latter.