1. Rhaim

1

RHAIM

T he very first thing I noticed about her were her ankles—because the shiny catsuit she was in was an inch too short to cover them.

They were a stark white in the darkness of Vertigo's debauched basement rooms where anything—and anyone—could be bought.

I'd been sitting at the well-stocked bar sipping wildly overpriced whiskey and idly watching the door for company, because despite paying my membership fees it'd been a long time since I'd bothered to come down here. The bouncer remembered me, as did some of the other patrons, and I gotten more than one welcoming nod plus a few hopeful stares. But the people who still knew me knew what I liked best.

Being alone.

It wasn't that I was a voyeur—on the contrary—but that I didn't enjoy any of the burdens being a committedly good dom required. Building a relationship, trust, having a flair for public exhibitionism, a tolerance for aftercare—I was just as aware of my own flaws as I was of everyone else's currently in this room.

Which was why when she came in, in her too-short shiny black catsuit and her strappy black heels, I would've bet a stack of hundreds that her fetish costume had come from the Halloween store.

It wasn't that she wasn't beautiful—she was; the catsuit left no doubt of her figure, which was just curvy enough to grab while being taut enough to bounce a quarter off of—but she was anxious, and I didn't recognize her, so that meant that she was not for me.

I wanted a sure thing, with someone who already knew I was an asshole.

That didn't stop her from trotting up to me at the bar, like a nervous yet still-sexy filly. Her long, dark brown hair was in a high ponytail, and it splashed in waves down around her shoulders, giving her a somewhat pony princess look.

All she would need to complete it would be a bit in her mouth, hoof-boots instead of heels, and a propensity for crawling.

"Hi," she breathed, flashing me a smile.

I took a moment to stare her down before responding, hoping that it might quiet any further attempts at conversation. "Hello," I said, and turned away from her, observing the rest of the room while shielding myself with my drink.

That didn't stop her from tapping me on my shoulder.

"Is this seat taken?"

The music was loud enough I could pretend to ignore her. Or I could show her my true nature and just get up and walk away—I owed no one my time.

She tapped me again though, more insistently, not catching the hint. "Um, this seat—was someone else—" she asked.

I looked back with a sigh, caught her shifting slightly as she anxiously pulled down the sleeves of her suit, and I realized her predicament. Her store-bought catsuit was too tight—the only safe place she could get away from the torture of her heels was beside me, at the bar, with its higher stools she could lean on—because if she sat down in that get-up, there was a good chance it would rip.

"I suppose it's free," I said, gesturing to it with the drink in my hand.

Her smile—showing off the best teeth Daddy's money could buy, I was certain—somehow turned even brighter. "It's my first time here," she confessed.

"I had guessed," I said slowly, then remembered the club's rules and narrowed my eyes a bit. "Where's your minder?"

Only friends of friends could get into this place and you had to sign off on whoever you brought, at least for the first time. It helped keep the community safe.

She fluttered a hand over her shoulder. "He went to talk to someone."

"And abandoned you?" I questioned the man's judgment at once.

She gave a soft laugh. "It's not like there's murderers down here."

I cocked one eyebrow up at her. "How can you be so sure?" Her eyes widened, and it was my turn to laugh. "I apologize. That was a sorry attempt at a joke. Have a good night," I said, standing and picking up my drink for a location change.

Her expression spun on a dime, looking a little stunned. "Would you like to know a secret?" she quickly asked, over the thumping bass.

And apparently, I had invited this on myself, by being kind. "Not really," I said, begging off.

"I don't have a minder," she said, pressing quickly on.

"Well, then I'll have to be speaking to Vertigo's membership coordinator about that, because I'm not paying as much as I do to be having conversations here with casuals." I took a step back, attempting to extract myself. She was pretty, but I had a suspicion the whiskey in my glass was older than she was.

"I just knew the password," she said, and then added at a slightly louder volume. "Do you want to know what it was?"

"No," I said simply, turning around to walk away.

"It was, ‘I'm gorgeous and I like to get spanked,'" she called after me, at a pitch where everyone at the bar could hear.

I paused at that. It was clear she wanted my attention.

And while I didn't want to give it to her...she still had it.

"Ignore him," said another man's voice from behind me. "He doesn't play well with others—but I can show you a good time."

I slowly turned, and saw Clark—a trust-fund type, far closer to her in age—circling in on her like a shark. Her warm brown eyes were filled with panic, until she noticed me noticing, and then she kept her gaze on mine like I was her savior.

And I realized that was why she was here, and what she wanted—the same as most people in the place.

Saving.

And it'd been a long time since I'd been in a situation where I could save anyone.

"Oh, come on, Rhaim," Clark complained as I strode back. "Everyone here knows you're rusty?—"

"Fuck off, Clark," I said, without taking my eyes off the woman. "Daddy issues?" I guessed and watched her cheeks flush even in the club's dim light.

"Yes," she admitted, the tip of her tongue furtively peeking out to give her full lips a nervous swipe.

"As long as you cop to them," I said. "What's your name?"

"Uh—Lia," she said, after a moment's panic more.

I knew what it was when she said it. "That's your real name, isn't it?" I asked her, mystified.

"Was it not supposed to be?" she asked.

Her password story might actually be real at this rate. "We usually leave our real names upstairs. For instance, the guy who sells weed on the back deck calls himself Madman23—and I've never met his older brothers one through twenty-two, or his younger brother, twenty-four."

I was making conversation with her now, pretending to be personable, a little to piss off Clark, who was still watching, but more to calm her, and she gave me a slow smile in return.

"What should I call you, then?" she asked, swinging her mane of a ponytail over one shoulder provocatively.

I cast an appreciative eye over her entire body, before staring her down again. "You are gorgeous," I agreed. "But did you mean what you said?"

She rose up eagerly on her toes and nodded hopefully, so I downed my drink and set the glass on the bar behind me, before offering her my arm. "In that case—you can call me sir."

Lia took it and we walked through the rest of the floor at a stately pace. Vertigo had installations in certain rooms that they took pride in, sometimes holiday themed, others just represented common kinks, but they went to elaborate lengths to make them special for scenes, all the better to draw crowds in when a theme changed.

I'd already walked the premises earlier in the night out of curiosity, which was why I knew exactly where I was taking her, in her silly catsuit, and on her teetering heels: a throne room.

It was done up to look like it was from that ridiculous dragon show on television, and it contained someone's massive, beautiful antique chair that'd they'd sacrificed at the altar of sexuality. It had all sorts of blunted swords artfully laced to the back of it, with winding layers of suspension rope wound around the front, a comfortably padded seat, and wide leatherbound arms—real leather, unlike the outfit she was in—with two women playing on board.

"Oh," Lia gasped as we entered, and I suspected from the way she'd been looking around en route, she hadn't made it past the bar.

I should've wondered why—I was good looking but not magnetically attractive. I'd kept myself up—for a long time I'd had nothing to do but work and work out—but I was well aware God hadn't blessed me with the same charisma he had others. My boss liked to tell me that my gruffness was part of my charm, but if it was, he was the only one who thought so.

Nero Ferreo liked me because I was his living pit bull, both in person and on paper. He enjoyed having the plausible deniability that came from having someone else do all your dirty work, and I enjoyed pretending like it was all his fault that I had to do it, like I didn't enjoy it in the least.

I'd started off with him thirty years ago, when we were both much younger men, on the cusp of our "industry" evolving, away from the racetracks and docks and into finance. And when wetwork shifted to deskwork, I was one of the few men who worked for him capable of making that change. You'd think a bunch of bookies would be better at doing math, but no...

But I still sometimes needed avenues to pursue my long-denied baser nature, which was how I'd found out about Vertigo myself, years ago, first as someone else's friend, and then as a member, once I could afford it.

I had no idea how she'd really gotten into this place, but since she was here, I was going to give her an evening to remember.

I waited for her to return her focus to me after surveying the room. The women on the throne weren't wearing much more than electrical tape and glittering diamond chokers, riding something purple and silicone between them, with one of the club's photographers nearby.

Lia's jaw dropped once she parsed that. "They take pictures here?" she said, gawking at me, before practically hiding behind my back.

"Yes, but you'd have to pay extra." I chuckled, but gave her cover nonetheless. "Some people want to commemorate the occasion, and they may only get to come here once a year. Which is also why we're patiently waiting our turn for them to finish." She believed me enough to creep forward again, watching the couple on the throne before giving me a guilty look, which I waved away. "They wouldn't be doing it in public if they didn't want people to see, so go ahead. I'll be right back," I told her, briefly leaving her to negotiate with the other members who were watching the show in line.

I didn't expect her to last more than ten minutes, and while I had no idea who she was, many people would've known me here in real life no matter what name I gave them so I'd never bothered to lie about it—and outside of these walls, I was the kind of man you wanted to owe you favors.

So it was nothing to gladhand a few fellow pervs, allowing us to cut—and I was happy the show was still going when I returned, because Halloween-store Lia and I needed some time to talk.

"We'll be next," I informed her, coming back to stand by her side.

Her lips parted at that, and she took in a thoughtful breath, nodding deeply, like she was preparing herself to go on a frightening rollercoaster ride. Her eyes were still on the women, who were chasing after pleasure, which gave me the freedom to look at her. Her ears were delicate pink shells, closely set against her head, and the angle of her neck was swanlike.

"Have you ever done anything like this before?"

"No," she breathed, without turning.

"How do you know you like it, then?"

Her amber eyes flickered up at me. "College is a time for experimentation," she said, with a hint of a tease, before sobering. "But this seems a bit more real."

"It can be." The thought of someone else her own age trying out things on her they'd only seen in porn disappointed me. Why would you take a thoroughbred to a children's party? "So let's both do our homework."

At that, I had her attention again, and if I were honest, traitorous parts of myself liked it.

"I want you over my knee, but I only intend to touch you from here," I said, indicating a height beside her hip, "to here." I sank my hand down to outside her mid-thigh. "Will that be all right with you?"

She bit her lips and then nodded.

"Words, please."

"Yes," she said, and swallowed. "You can touch me."

It was my turn to nod. "Did you have a safe word you wanted to use?" I asked, and when she didn't respond quickly enough I added, "Like a code word in case you'd like me to stop?"

"I won't want you to stop," she said brashly.

One of my eyebrows rose perilously high. "May I touch your chin, then, before I give you incredibly stern advice?"

She gave me a questioning look. "Sure."

I took it in between my thumb and crooked forefingers, holding her face up and leaning forward, making sure she could see nothing else but me. "Anyone who says that, in real life, and especially in here, is a fool. Are you a foolish girl, Lia?"

Emotions ran rampant across her face again, especially at the mention of her name, then she squinted. "Maybe I need to be punished?"

I shook her head for her with the hold I had on her chin. "Don't play act yet. We're not done with the rules—and if you're too impatient for rules, then I'm walking."

She straightened her shoulders and became serious quickly. "I'm sorry," she said, then added "Sir" as an afterthought.

"Good. Back to our discussion. What's your safe word?"

"Mmmm . . . Lambo?"

"As in the car?" I asked.

I felt her nod again, and let go of her. "All right—if you'd like. Just one last question, then: what do you want to get out of tonight?"

That made her blink with surprise. And then she inhaled, as if to say something, but then fell back, swallowing whatever words had been on the tip of her tongue, as her gaze jumped everywhere but at me. "I—I don't know."

"Don't know—or would rather not say?" I pressed.

"Can't say," she answered quietly.

"Brave enough to get spanked in front of strangers in public, but too scared to tell me why?" I asked with bemusement.

"Something like that," she said, looking down briefly at her pedicured toes—before raising her chin back up defiantly. "What is it that you want?"

"For you to call me sir," I said simply.

She groaned at that, as I hid a grin. Then she sighed heavily, before asking, "And what is it that you want, sir?" in a falsely congenial tone, like each of the words pained her.

I gave her a Machiavellian look—the same kind of look I gave suited men in boardrooms before I stole their companies from them—and instead of taking a highly appropriate step back, she took a challenging step forward, so brazen she almost made me laugh while giving me a hard on.

She was the exact type of woman I shouldn't have been playing with. She ran hot, then cold, she didn't know the rules, but was determined to win the game. And she had to be less than half my age. I considered lying to her, but seeing as I had already had a more interesting night with her than I'd expected, if I were honest with her and she backed down now, then either I'd sorely misjudged her, or it wasn't meant to be.

"Well?" she demanded, staring up at me, completely fearless, so I decided to reciprocate.

"What I want, little Lia, is to make a pretty spectacle of you." The women on the throne were moaning louder, and the scent of sex was heady in the air—so I took her chin again and leaned down and in, so she could hear me, and I would only smell her honey-scented shampoo. "I won't tell you how beautiful you are, because you surely know it," I said quietly into her ear, "but I like the idea of you strewn across my lap, your heart-shaped ass in the air, you mewling with each stroke as I spank you, preferably until you cannot breathe, and possibly until you cry." My desires became more cogent as I gave them voice, and then they outstripped rational thought entirely. "I want you to dredge through whatever brought you here tonight and leave it behind as I beat it out of you, until there's nothing left of you but the pride that you've survived me."

I heard her breath catch in my ear. "Are we playing now?" she whispered.

"Yes."

"Then . . . I want that."

"Which part?"

"All of it," she said, before adding, "Daddy."

I made a dissatisfied sound as I rose up, releasing her. "I'm not sure whether or not that makes me feel old, or like a monster," I said, giving her side-eye with an arched brow.

But then she was there, her eyes wide and her expression begging me for something I already knew I couldn't give her. "Why not both?" she said, with absolute sincerity.

The acridity of cleaning products cut through the air. The women on the throne were through, and some of the club's new members were doing their service hours, quickly preparing it for our show.

And Lia was still . . . hoping, I thought, was the best verb.

Wanting me to be something for her that I could never be. My only consolation was knowing that no other man in the room could manage it either—so it was just as well that she was with me.

I heaved a sigh. "Fine. I can call me that. You cannot call me that. And this is just one scene. Nothing real. After that, I don't owe you—and you don't know me," I said quietly.

She nodded quickly. "I understand," she said just as quietly back.

"All right." Everyone in line knew we were next, and the throne was empty.

Waiting.

I centered myself, ignoring everything else, settling my full attention on her like a heavy cloak, and I watched her accept it, frighteningly receptive, ready to respond to all of my cues. She was like some kind of filly indeed—one who'd been searching for the right rider—and so I gave her a somewhat wicked grin. "Lia, would you like everyone else in this room to see what a good girl you can be for me?" I asked her with utmost indulgence.

She gave me the sweetest, most trusting smile I'd ever seen, one that made me feel like an asshole for sins I hadn't even committed yet. "Yes, please," she said, beaming.

I offered her my hand, and she took it.

I let her lead the way to the throne, so that I could watch her ass—might as well pre-game some, since I was back here—and so that everyone else would see her acting of her own volition.

I had dragged women through rooms here kicking and screaming before—consensually, of course, with all the rules carefully hashed out and written down, practically notarized—but this wouldn't be like that.

No, because somewhere along the line I'd apparently decided to be a good person...well, maybe not good, but I'd decided to give her what she wanted for the evening. I couldn't put my finger on exactly when it'd happened, but no one was more surprised about it than me.

I mounted the dais the throne sat on and took my seat, careful to arrange myself—and the hard on I was sporting—for maximum comfort before crossing my legs. I could've spanked her lying flat across my lap, but I liked the idea of her being a little topsy-turvy, and having to brace herself against her own abuse by placing her hands on the carpeted floor. She made to kneel down, and I tapped my upper thigh meaningfully when she paused.

"It's just that," she said, trying to move and wincing, as all the lines on her catsuit became uncomfortably tight, and she tugged at her sleeves again.

I resisted the urge to chuckle. "If your suit tears, you'll be giving the couple over there the best show of the evening," I said, tilting my head their direction. "But if it does, I swear I'll give you my coat to take home, to cover yourself with." I was taller than she was, it would hang down to her mid-thigh.

I had no business breaking up a bespoke Fioravanti suit, but I would if I had to.

If I didn't, my dick might never forgive me.

"Okay." She nodded and ungracefully climbed over me, like she was crawling into a tunnel. Her hands reached the ground and she shimmied, wriggling until my thigh caught her beneath her hips, and my cock was pleasantly trapped between my stomach and her ribcage.

"Remember your safe word," I reminded her. "And tap my leg twice if you can't speak."

"Okay," she said again, looking innocently over her shoulder at me, one side of her face framed by her hair. "Go slow?" she asked—her first true hesitancy of the night.

I slowly put one hand down over her right ass cheek, the one furthest away from me, to palm it while I could see her expression.

"I would never hurt my little girl," I promised, as her face went even more flush than it had been prior from being so close to the ground. And then I added "Much" and raised my hand.