Chapter 19

Kathleen

Istood Ira up.

When Wednesday came and the instructions were in my texts, I couldn't do it. Don't ask me why. Not because I don't know why, but because I know why all too well.

I can't do it. I can't submit to her.

It has nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. It's not who I am. Not only do I not have a submissive personality, but I don't have the fortitude to do something like that.

Now, I'm not about to tell a woman who is of sound mind and body what kinks she should not engage in with anyone. Especially if that woman knows what she wants and understands her mind well. Lots of women get off on someone dominating them. I get that. Superficially. Only superficially. Beyond that? I have no idea what they're thinking or what goes on with them physiologically.

I don't want to know.

Suppose it's something I should know, considering I've had a few female submissive partners over the years. But with men, it's easier. I have my role. They have theirs. It's clear why they get off on a dominant type like me treating them to a night of dirty words and implements. I even feel safer with male submissives, because I don't worry as much about what they can handle. Sometimes, when I spank a fellow woman on the ass, it takes all of my fortitude to not hold back. Perhaps it's because I see a piece of myself in those women, and I do not desire to be submissive. Not even for a night.

Look, I know what that dinner would be like. It would be Ira smarming all over me, trying to get me in bed. Submissively. Ever since that bet happened, I've been wary. She's looking at me as a potential partner now. I've gone from a good fuck to a good time. If all Ira Mathison wants is sex, that's one thing… but I know better.

She wants me to submit. That can't happen.

I don't mind sharing some control. I don't mind her getting on top of me in bed and humping me like an animal. That can be… well, it sounds hot. Yet I can't stand the thought of her thinking of me like that. As a submissive. I won't let Ira think of me as anything other than what I genuinely am.

Who am I? Right now I'm the type of date who stands someone up, waiting until the last minute to send her a text curtly saying that I can't make it, and then blocking her so she can't bother me.

I don't feel good about it. I should at least talk to her, but right now I'm so fucked up in the head that I think it's best to let it cool for a while. I'll have to see her eventually.

See her, yeah. For work. That's it. We should probably stop having sex.

It's Thursday night and I'm at Midnight. Alone. I didn't invite Eve because, one, I knew she would be busy, and two, I want to decompress on my own terms.

Usually, the club isn't too busy on weeknights, but Thursdays can be different. Lots of businesspeople take a three-day weekend and start the party on Thursday night. Tonight isn't different in that regard. Every time I look out from my VIP perch, I see more people filing in and out. The place isn't packed, but it's not empty. If I wanted, I could find a sub for the night.

Probably, but I don't want to.

I'm here to have a drink and watch others. I am definitely more of a voyeur than an exhibitionist. I prefer to have my slice of paradise behind closed doors, where it's me and my partner. I can't say I've ever had the desire to have someone watch me as I come – unless that person is the one making me come.

So here I am, sitting alone in my booth with a glass of whatever and watching others have a good time. It's a good way to unwind most nights, but my mind is plagued with thoughts.

Like the thought of Ira Mathison curling her hand around the back of my neck and whispering into my ear, "Bend over, Kathleen."

What does that mean, anyway? That she wants to spank me? To fuck me from behind? You know, Ira, I would let you fuck me from behind anyway. Just know that you're not holding my head in the pillow and using me as a sex toy like I've heard you do sometimes. You would hear every moan leak from my lips. You would see my pupils as I look over my shoulder and into your striking hazel eyes. The closest you'd get to holding me down is climbing on top of me and pile-driving me with my choice of sexual weapon. Ha! You think I wouldn't let you do that if I was in the right mood?

Just don't think of me as your sub. Think of me as the virile, stubborn woman you're fucking for five minutes.

I don't like playing mind games in bed. This is why I like submissive lovers. They know what they're going to get from me. They respect me. They make me feel like the greatest woman in the universe.

Being submissive can't do that for me.

Nevertheless, you can probably guess what kind of people I'm watching in this club. It's always the same. Aside from Eve and myself, there aren't that many single Dommes who frequent this place. Most of the women are submissive, whether they're paired or alone. Besides, it's easier for submissive women to get access to the club. The owners are always looking for more subs for the unique tastes of we rich dominants.

Always.

Oh, the third reason Eve isn't here tonight? Her sister and her fiancée walked through the door. Eve always makes a point of not showing up at the same time for obvious reasons. Can't say I blame her.

Especially when your sister and her fiancée are, you know, two of the most famous (infamous?) kinksters around.

If you were to ask anyone in this club who the most well-known submissive is, almost all of them would say Monique Grant, the woman who owns and operates a BDSM pleasure house in the countryside. I've never been, but Eve says it's everything I've heard about and more. Apparently, that's where Helen and Monique met a few months ago. Caused quite the scandal, since Monique's ex-Domme is none other than Jacqueline Lyle, a crooked bitch whom nobody likes but everyone does business with because she's so insanely rich that there is some debate between her and Bill Gates when it comes to wealth. It was the stir of the century when Monique and Helen had an exhibition and earned millions of dollars in one night.

I know. I was there. I may or may not have been convinced to throw a few thousand dollars in their direction because damnit, Monique Grant is a ridiculously talented sub.

And gorgeous.

They make a beautiful couple. Helen Warner is tall, blond, and always a sophisticated lady. Monique is petite, brunette, and carries an effortless grace that begs to be examined.

So, I examine her.

I don't consider myself attracted to her. That doesn't mean I don't care to look at her, especially when dressed in a see-through negligee with silk underwear beneath. Only in this club could you get away with that. And only Monique could get away with walking around as if it's no big deal everyone's seen her nipples and vagina before.

She's the perfect example of a confident sub. She knows what she wants, and she knows how to get it from a Domme. Right now, she's sitting on Helen's lap in the main gallery, serving her and some business associates drinks. A hostess could do it for them, but Monique is the type to get off on doing it herself. She's the ultimate in pleasing someone like that. I'm not sure that's the kind of sub I'm looking for. I want to feel like a goddess, but I don't want my sub to be my servant.

Many dominants see their subs like that.

I'm back to thinking about Ira. I imagine that's us down there, me barely clad in her lap while I say "Yes, Mistress," and pour everyone enough drinks to get them plastered. She'd grab my ass in front of everyone, call me a pet name, and cop a feel on my breasts. She'd want everyone in the club to know that I belonged to her.

I shiver. It's not in pleasure.

Still, it's interesting to watch a woman who is so comfortable in her skin, in her role that she makes it look completely natural. From a feminist perspective, I find it interesting. Monique Grant was meant for a life of servitude, sexual or otherwise. In the hands of a good Domme, she's the happiest woman in the world. She's also incredibly susceptible, and I don't like that kind of vulnerability.

Vulnerable women are easy to manipulate. To use. To hurt.

Monique is the perfect example of that as well. We've all heard her story. Not everyone gets the kind of happy ending Helen Warner provides.

I look away as Helen pulls her close and whispers something in her ear, making Monique giggle. Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for their happiness, but I feel so uncomfortable right now that I can't help but turn toward anyone else in the room.

Like the Anderssens, hanging on each other as they enter the club and say hello to everyone they know – which is everyone.

Lara Anderssen isn't like Monique at all. She's a switch, like her spouse, and that's almost rarer than a bona fide Domme around here.

I don't know what they're celebrating – probably The Ace – but they're buying a round of drinks for a table. Lara is in Kennedy's lap, draping herself like an ornament for everyone to admire. Certainly, a couple who likes swinging and being watched. Everyone loves them because they're always a guaranteed good time when business isn't at the forefront of our minds.

It doesn't take long for things to heat up. After only a couple of drinks, Lara has her mouth all over Kennedy, the two of them acting like teenagers as people cheer them on and incite them to be raunchier in their display. We all know what will happen the minute the stage opens.

Sure enough, once the current show is over, Kennedy hauls her wife to the stage and announces that her flushed sub of the night is going to take one for the whole team. Glasses are in the air to toast their antics. I'm sitting here stewing over what happened with The Ace.

I'm also too intrigued for my own good.

Another drink is on my table before I realize I've ordered it. Nothing hard. Just enough to relax me as I shift my concentration from "those people" to "those people."

This isn't the Anderssens who turned my life upside down with Ira. These are the Anderssens who forget themselves and let everyone around them partake in their escapades.

The club is quiet, aside from the music playing. Another hostess comes by and asks if I need anything. I tell her I want to be left alone until the show is over. Time for Kathleen the voyeur to go into full throttle.

Like Kennedy, who spanks her wife's ass and watches her shudder in that marital hold. Shit, that's hot.

They're both hot when I allow myself to take a good look at them through the eyes of a sexual being. A handsome couple, the Anderssens have always been known for their impeccable styles and flaunting what they have to their advantage. Even though Lara's self-satisfied laugh annoys me, I can't deny that the way her voice trills when her spouse caresses her skin and whispers into her ear is erotic. Probably because she's not meaning to be self-satisfied right now. She's purely at Kennedy's devotion and mercy.

That woman slowly disrobes until her open shirt is on display for the likes of me to see. She's not as eye-catching as Ira, but as far as Lara's concerned, Kennedy is Aphrodite (Adonis?) incarnate. When she gets down on her knees and lets Kennedy stroke her face, I know she's so smitten that she'll let her spouse do whatever she wants in front of these people. And Kennedy Anderssen wants what a vast majority of dominants want at any given moment. Male. Female. Some secret in between. We all want it.

She wants her wife to serve her.

I've seen a ton of nudity in my day, mostly here in this club. Kennedy's body is nothing special – not unattractive by any means, but not special – and yet Lara is kneeling before her, gazing up at Kennedy as if the sun rises and sets on everything she possesses. She's lost in those eyes as Kennedy gazes upon Lara, hair in her hands and her skirt riding up her bare ass as she crawls on all-fours to where her spouse sits on an armless chair, legs wide open as Lara brushes her cheek against those knees and buries her face between those thighs.

I'm sure they've performed this a ton of times. It's not uncommon for exhibitionists to perform once a month for the thrill of it. Most of the time, we get bored after seeing the same people do the same ol' thing. The Anderssens are different, though, because they feed off each other's obsessions so well. I don't doubt that they enjoy a very healthy sex life at home and see Midnight as an extension of it, not a cure.

Briefly, I wonder if they switch equally… or if Lara is usually the submissive wife in the bedroom, urging her spouse to fuck every orifice and to make her come again and again.

My nipples brush against the edge of the table. Shit, this is turning me on. These two people I can barely stand in business, yet in private I can't stop watching them make love, Kennedy Anderssen pushing her wife away so she can turn Lara around and spank her.

"Were you a bad kitten today and need to be punished?" Kennedy's guttural growl fills even me with tingles. "Tell everyone what you did today."

Lara looks like she's humiliated, but the edge in her voice suggests that she's getting off so hard on this. "I made a bad stock investment and lost us a few dollars…"

I wonder how much a "few" is.

"Yes, kitten, and now you have to look over the entire portfolio again, don't you?"

She squirms in the lap she has mounted. "Please, darling, punish me."

I've seen Lara grab and squeeze some of her own ass before. This is not that scenario. This is a Lara that makes even me wet. She's obedient, she knows her place, and she knows that she deserves whatever her Domme gives her. She's exactly the type of woman I would want if I were into hyper-femmes such as us.

A cracking spank echoes in the room. Kennedy laughs at the gasp on her wife's face. "You want another one? I'll spank you until you're so wet my hand slips."

She goes ahead, striking Lara's pinking flesh until her eyes roll back and her face tells me that she's living in ecstasy. By now, her skirt is hiked up over her hips, her tiny thong not covering her ass and barely covering her pussy. Yes, I can see those details from way up here. Yes, I'm looking.

"You need to know your place, kitten." Such biting words. "Right here in front of these people. Now keep your mouth shut and take your punishment."

Kennedy doesn't let any of us down. I almost want a cigarette from watching her push Lara to the floor and striking her ass like there's something to prove.

Hard.

Rough.

Lara is shrieking in agony and pleasure, probably embracing both the erotic moment (with an audience, no less) and diluting the shock her body experiences. That's part of her punishment. Kennedy wants her to feel the stings of pain in a place that is supposed to accept nothing but pleasure.

It's crude. It's tough. And it's so hot that I finish my drink without realizing it.

There's something beautiful about it. The way Lara opens her eyes and looks up at Kennedy, mouth agape and face pleading for her to do it again. Again. Again. It's the kind of look that only a tight-knit couple could accomplish. You don't see it often. They're so in tune that it makes me jealous. I'm turned on, but I also wish that I could feel something like that…

I catch myself in the middle of that thought. What am I thinking? Am I high?

"Fuck me!" Lara grips the edge of the stage, her ass rippling with every hard spank she receives. She's slowing down, and I know we in the audience are hoping to see the sweat on Kennedy's brow and the redness of her hand. We want to see her mark Lara's ass with her punishment while showing the world that they share the same pain.

Lara cries out again, and the crowd is loving it.

I'm both intrigued and confused. If I didn't know Lara so well, I would assume this was her natural place in their relationship. That Kennedy always takes control. Except I know them. For years they've been coming – and coming – here. I've seen Kennedy tied up on an ottoman while Lara whacks her crotch and calls her filth. I've seen her bring her spouse to the brink until Kennedy begs to come in front of God and country.

That's where I get confused. I'm not a switch, so the idea of spanking one night and being spanked the next blows my mind – and not in a fun way. I don't get it. How? How does a person flip a switch like that in their head? Being a Domme and being a sub are such different mindsets that I'm not sure I can ever understand what happens between a couple like this.

Obviously, two switches can make great partners. Just look at these two assholes.

Lara crumples on the stage, her spouse's hand gently caressing her spine. I can't hear what Kennedy's saying. Nobody can, aside from Lara, who whimpers something in return.

It's cute. It's sweet. It's what I always see between these long-term partners who are still so in love. A part of me is jealous. I want that with somebody. The coziness. The love. The feeling so comfortable that the idea of having sex in front of the whole room isn't even an issue.

All around me are submissive women. I don't see a single Domme in the VIP area. Either the women are hooked up with men I know from the scene, or they're stag and searching for someone to make nice with them. It's a common sight at Midnight. Only before now, I hadn't really thought about these women and what goes through their minds.

Because that's supposed to be me. I stood up that date with Ira because I'm too scared to know what happens in the mind of a submissive woman. Even when I'm having sex with them, I'm so lost in my head that I never stop to think about what it's like for them.

Submissive men, though, are easy. They're giving up the power that society already thrusts on them. Who am I kidding? They still have that power. Even when I'm calling them boys, outside of our bedroom the world will still treat them as above me. Submitting to someone, anyone… why would I want to give up even more power?

I've fought so long and so hard to make people take me seriously.

Yet I can't help but imagine that being Ira and me, her hands laying claim as she takes me to a higher state of consciousness that I've never experienced before. I've never been in subspace. It looks so blissful, yet I've been too scared to try it for so long.

I don't give up control. It's too dangerous.

Yet… Ira…

Tears stream down my face. I don't know why I'm crying. I don't know why I'm looking at Ira's name on my phone, wishing I dared to apologize for standing her up. I wish I dared to explain why I'm so scared.

Perhaps I don't have the courage because I don't trust myself around her. The moment she puts her hands on me, I'll want to do whatever she says, even if it goes against everything I usually want from my life.

All of this is teaching me that I'm not as strong as I've always thought. I feel powerless. Even without the stupid bet, I…

I'm coming undone. I need to leave.