Chapter 1

THE OVERHEAD LIGHTS flickered twice before dimming. The signal elicited an excited hum from the crowd, nearly a thousand in attendance, as they shifted their focus to the center of the room.

“Are you ready to begin, Narissa?”

“Yes, Master Tristan.” An experienced submissive with a penchant for ropes, she shivered in anticipation.

“Hang on, then,” he advised. “We’re going up.”

Using the toe of his boot, Tristan slid open the recessed control panel on the floor and flipped the activation switch. He’d done this dozens of times and expected the slight jerk beneath his feet as the hydraulics engaged and the platform slowly rose. Although he’d worked with Narissa several times before, they’d never been featured on center stage. With her kneeling at his feet, he laid a reassuring hand on top of her head until they stopped moving and the stage locked in position, thirty feet above the main floor.

Renowned among the club membership as the rope master, he lived up to his reputation of being painstakingly thorough, and completed another circulation check on his eager volunteer. He tested the sturdiness of the knots at the anchor points and ran his fingers beneath the ropes—natural jute, which he preferred—to ensure they were tight but not constricting. Knowing his audience’s limited attention span, he’d gotten a head start, completing the time-consuming takata kote , or box tie, around Narissa’s upper body beforehand.

Besides her affinity for strict bondage, the vibrant redhead was an avid exhibitionist, enjoying a public scene in front of a full house. Although she had stood motionless for him, her self-control honed through years of experience. Each time his fingers brushed her breasts and the sensitive area between her thighs, her breath hitched, and she shivered. Saying she had a head start on the scene would be an understatement.

They worked well together, but she wasn’t his submissive. Afterward, she would return to her domme. He’d been mentoring Mistress Diana in shibari for the past few weeks. Still, she wasn’t close to being ready for advanced ties, much less suspensions or a scene in the crowded, often distracting playroom that incorporated both. In time, she would be, which would leave him without a demo model—again.

His fellow doms urged him to take his own sub, but that was out of the question. He pushed the reasons to the back of his mind. His sole focus had to be his rope bottom now. He could do that with shibari. Many enthusiasts, like Narissa, found the practice highly arousing. Not that he didn’t, but more so, he enjoyed the control, the creativity, and the calm that came over, and how he could quiet his mind from all the other bullshit and let it fade into the background.

One last time, he slipped his fingers beneath the ropes around her arms and tested the knots at her back and hips, which would serve as the primary anchor points. “Is anything pinching or constricting?”

“No, Master Tristan. I’m as snug as a bug in a rug.”

“Excellent,” he said, pleased with her enthusiastic response. But he realized the risk. If she was flying on an endorphin high, she might not recognize friction or pain. As the rigger, it fell to him to watch for objective signs of trouble and swiftly take action.

Satisfied with everything, Tristan pulled two cables down from the ceiling and connected them to the pre-tied suspension ropes. Using the pulley system above, he raised her effortlessly from the elevated platform. Only then did he return to the control panel. With a gentle tap of his toe, he activated another switch, instantly illuminating the woman, naked except for the jute coils and knots and a minuscule, flesh-colored thong, now suspended an additional five feet above the already elevated stage.

The audience let out a collective gasp. He didn’t blame them; Narissa in a ketsuzuri , which translated to ass suspension, dangling facedown, arms behind her back, bent at the hips with a double-column tie around her waist and thighs which presented her ass for display, flogging, or fucking, was a sight to behold.

Tristan took a step back, allowing her to rotate slowly, showcasing her provocative pose. But a buzz of expectation rose from below him. His greedy audience wanted more.

Tristan enjoyed impact play as much as the next dom, but it wasn’t the end-all. For him, it was the rope. Many in the crowd expected a big finish, however. As did Narissa, so he’d give them what they wanted. He reached behind him and withdrew the medium-weight leather flogger he tucked into his belt before taking the stage.

With a flick of his wrist, he painted her creamy skin pink with his lash. Her breasts, back, ass, thighs, and finally, with practiced aim, bringing the tails between her spread thighs, connecting with the small strip of fabric covering her pussy.

Narissa’s body trembled as her impassioned moans filled the air. The sheer intensity of her response had the power to transport the most stalwart rope top to that elusive and coveted state of mind where artistry, control, and, yes, passion met. Where after meticulously planning each move and orchestrating it to perfection until everything around them, the room, the crowd, the ambient sights, smells, and sounds faded away, and all that remained were the ropes, the flogger, the sensations, and the connection between rope top and bottom. This profound state of headspace—also known as top- or dom-space—was a wondrous place.

But as he looked at dreamy-eyed Narissa, face flushed, her skin glistening from the strict bondage and her climax, Tristan wasn’t feeling it. And he hadn’t for a very long time. He was a rigger, a shibari teacher and mentor, and part club owner with a leadership role. He enjoyed all of that, but something was missing.

At his core, he was a dominant. He craved the connection, trust, and control that would quench his partner’s insatiable need to submit. To build that required time, more than an hour-long scene or an evening, something he wouldn’t allow himself with a sub.

Therefore, despite Narissa finding fulfillment, he was going through the motions. He had been in the lifestyle for years, but it all felt routine and hollow lately.

Tristan would have provided aftercare. He firmly believed it was a critical element of every scene and his duty. Some dominants took it lightly or neglected it altogether, which really pissed him off. You had to be a special kind of asshole to strip someone down to their most vulnerable state and walk away. But after he released her and returned the stage to the floor, Narissa’s mistress was anxiously waiting and rushed forward to claim that pleasure for herself.

“You were magnificent,” Diana said, her voice filled with admiration as she supported her unsteady sub. The redhead’s distant gaze and slow movements told him she was far from recovered.

“Make sure she drinks a full bottle of water,” he urged. “Often chocolate helps.”

“Trust that I’ll see to her. Thank you, Master Tristan, for showing us how it can be.”

“You’re most welcome.” He kept his voice low so as not to be jarring to her still-flying submissive. “Next time, you will do the bindings and wield the flogger.”

“I look forward to it,” Diana replied, although her voice wavered along with her certainty. “I just hope I can achieve the same result.”

“You’ll get there as your confidence in your techniques grows. Practice, as they say, makes perfect.”

“I like to practice, mistress,” Narissa murmured drowsily.

“I know you do, precious. For now, let’s find a couch and a nice soft blanket.” Her domme hugged her close, supporting her wobbly-legged charge as she guided her to one of the many well-stocked aftercare areas.

Tristan packed up—quick and efficient. He’d done it so many times, he could do it in his sleep. The flogger went into a plastic bag and into an outer pocket, always careful to keep used items separate until they were thoroughly sanitized. It was Diana’s flogger, however. She would have that task once he returned it to her, later when she didn’t have her hands full.

He envied the young mistress. Everything was new and exciting. He’d been like that once, eager to learn and try everything. Had it really been seventeen years since he’d attended his first shibari demo?

When was the last time he felt Diana’s eagerness? Certainly, before moving to LA after his military discharge, and long before his world had forever turned upside down.

With years of experience, he always tried to pay it forward by being a resource to new doms. He also took his shifts at monitoring and stepped up to do demonstrations. Ties and suspensions, among the most frequent requests, turned into a twice-a-month event. He had hoped it would reignite the excitement he’d felt when first starting out in the lifestyle. It hadn’t. He couldn’t recall when he’d last negotiated a scene with a new sub or reserved a private room just for fun.

He slung his heavy rigger’s bag over his shoulder, in the mood for whiskey rather than fun. Frustration washed over him as he strode through the crowded main floor. At thirty-eight, he had expected to have his life figured out by now. He wasn’t even close to solving the mystery.

With a sudden burst of agility, Tristan sidestepped, narrowly avoiding a collision with the brunette who, out of nowhere, darted in front of him and fell to her knees. His heavy bag jerked him off-balance, causing a sharp twinge in his left shoulder—the old injury from his military days flaring up with the sudden movement.

“What the hell?” he growled, glaring down at her, his jaw tight from the pain.

The woman gazed up at him, her regret over her impulsive actions evident. “I-I apologize, Master Tristan,” she stammered. “I didn’t intend to startle you. I...wanted to offer myself for your next demonstration. If you’d be willing to have me.”

Tristan’s irritation lessened as the shooting pain localized. Selina was a dark-haired, dark-eyed exotic beauty sought after by many. Despite masking it with sirs and downcast eyes and now kneeling, her selectiveness and overly assertive nature made him reluctant to engage with her. His lack of interest only made her bolder.

In an unwavering tone, he told her curtly, “I appreciate the offer, but your chop-block method isn’t to my liking.” When she gazed up at him, clearly puzzled, he mustered the patience to explain. “That means taking a dom you’re interested in out at the knees. You’ve been a member here long enough to know that’s not how things work. You need to attract my interest, not demand it.”

Her brown eyes widened in surprise, a shimmer of tears gathering as she rose to her feet. “I apologize, Master Tristan. I will remember that in the future.”

Tristan acknowledged her with a nod, feeling a pang of regret as she hurried away. He shouldn’t have been so harsh with her, but he didn’t like pushy subs and preferred doing the choosing. He also hadn’t decided if he’d continue with public demonstrations. Given how he felt tonight, he doubted his future as a club master—period.

He moved his heavy bag to his right shoulder and exited the playroom. The pain, now a dull ache that would require ice and ibuprofen, served as a reminder of the shadows from his past. Perhaps this encounter was a sign to reevaluate his place in the BDSM world and figure out where his true desires lay.

He went to the lounge and stowed his gear on a shelf behind the bar. While there, he reached for a glass and poured himself a generous double shot because with his shoulder tweaked, he was done for the night. As part owner, no one would question his right to self-service or to indulge in something from the top shelf. Aptly named Decadence, the club was renowned for its opulence and attention to detail and how it catered to their patrons’ every desire, including at the bar.

He marveled at how his tastes had evolved. Gone were the days of downing harsh rotgut whiskey. With each year, his palate had grown more refined, craving the velvety warmth of the smooth Kentucky bourbon—specifically, Elijah Craig, an eighteen-year-old single-barrel marvel.

As Tristan sat sipping his bourbon, lost in his thoughts, he felt a presence beside him. Glancing up, he saw his friend and managing partner, Eric Dupree, settling onto the empty stool beside him. He waved off the bartender when he approached.

“Tough mission?” he asked.

Eric was ex-military, a former Navy SEAL, but Tristan, who was Army, didn’t hold that against him. Like him, he was also a Rossi man. He hadn’t been part of the recent extraction in Columbia, but he knew about it as the CFO and one of the partners.

“It was routine and rather boring, actually.”

“Are you ill?”

He took another sip of his bourbon and then swung his head to stare at his friend. “Why this sudden concern?”

“I like to know if there’s a reason a dom makes a sub cry outside of a negotiated scene before I chew them a new one.”

Tristan grunted. “Bad news travels fast. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with the Decadence grapevine.” He drained his glass before admitting, “I already planned to apologize to Selina, but some of the subs around here are forgetting their place. It’s not... What did we call it back in high school when the girls asked the guys out?”

“Sadie Hawkins? Or some such bullshit.”

“That sounds right. Unless it’s a domme doing the asking, we need to look at retraining if that’s how things are going around here.”

“Selina can push boundaries, but I haven’t known her to cross them. As a member in good standing for a year, she knows the rules and the consequences for breaking them. If she needs correction, we have other means than biting her head off and making her cry.”

“The carousel? For volunteering for a demonstration? And they call me harsh.” He rubbed his face with both hands, feeling the sudden drain of fatigue. “I’m in a foul mood. I said I’d apologize. That should end it.”

Eric studied him briefly before remarking, “You seem off, and I don’t only mean tonight. When are you ever going to find a sub and settle down?”

Not this old line, again. He barely contained a sigh. “Never. That’s not my style.”

“Snapping at willing submissives and scaring off everyone while scowling and brooding at my bar is though? Gotta say, friend, your style isn’t exactly working for you.”

“I’m not a social butterfly. You knew that when you accepted my application and my hefty buy-in.”

“Yes, but maybe it’s time to consider making a change.” Eric slid off the stool and clapped him on the shoulder. When pain seared through the joint and shot down his arm, Tristan barely managed not to wince. “I was resistant until a cute little curvy blonde entered my life and turned it around for the better. I also sleep much better at night. Think about it.”

Tristan watched his reflection in the mirror as he faded into the crowd. Eric had changed all right. As CFO for the Rossi Group who also did field work and master dom for a club with a diverse, edgy, and growing membership, he’d taken on a helluva lot of responsibility. He’d gained some mother-hen traits, too. Like him, his friend had seen some messed-up shit in his time. His reference to sleep told him he understood what he was dealing with, but Tristan found it hard to believe anything would chase away the nightmares and pain except time and hardening his heart. He wouldn’t risk it again; it had been ravaged enough.

Something had to give though, but not tonight. He was going to his empty home to nurse his shoulder with an ice pack then to his empty bed, in his even emptier life. It was hard to believe he preferred it that way, but he did. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.