8. Gibson

8

GIBSON

I didn’t see the eyeliner coming.

I also can’t say what it is about the fact that Christian is wearing eyeliner that’s making me that much more eager to get him down to The Dungeon. I’ve never been sexually attracted to a man before, but I do find watching men together sexy. I like to watch men fuck women, too. Generally, I like watching people get off in whatever way they choose, and I’ve never given much thought as to gender or sexuality.

Christian began our conversation by stating he’s bisexual, and I only batted an eyelash because it’s not the way most talks between two people begin. Still, it set a tone.

I wonder what we’ll see tonight. At this club, there’s no telling.

One thing the hotel doesn’t have is an elevator, and I live on the fifth floor, which we added on when I bought the building. My stairwell is private, behind a locked door, but the main staircase is wide, marble, and restored from the original. It’s as old as the Renaissance, built for a wealthy silk merchant. It’s lavish, and exactly what one would expect from a luxury hotel in the heart of Rome, pain in the ass though it may be, and absolutely not suitable for the very elderly or people with mobility challenges.

The laws here are different, and when I find a place for an elevator, I’ll put one in, but that’s a future me problem.

“This reminds me of a place I used to live in Brooklyn.” Christian says. “It was a walkup,” he adds, probably realizing the similarities between an Italian Palazzo and an apartment in New York are limited.

We arrive at the ground floor and approach a door guarded by a bouncer dressed as a bellhop. “Signore Hayes. Bentornato.”

“Ciao, grazie. This is my assistant Christian. Christian this is Marco.”

Christian nods and smiles as Marco shakes his hand in greeting.

“Pass along we’ll be here until Sunday. He can come and go as he likes.”

“Si, Signore,” Marco says, then opens the door with the wave of a card.

We enter the violet-lit tunnel with painted black stone walls. Music and moans filter up from below as we approach the narrow staircase.

“This is downright medieval,” Christian says.

“That’s the theme. Admittedly, it’s not for everyone, but I have an extremely loyal client base.”

“Does it work the same way as the club at home? With the escorts and everything?”

“No. This one functions more like a club with senior members who teach younger members the rules and techniques. It may sound ridiculous,” I say as we descend the stairs, “but it’s more like a family—or I guess maybe community would be a better word. And the membership isn’t quite as pricey as the Upper East Side.”

“Does it make a profit?”

“Sure. I only have to hire monitors and bar staff. ”

“Cleaners?”

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Someone mops the floor.”

He laughs.

The bass line of the music makes my chest thrum. A woman screams, and the smack of flesh on flesh is audible.

At the lower landing, the dungeon reveals itself. Everything is black, save for the bottles of liquor behind the bar. The same purple-hued light leaves the club hazy and dim.

One of the habits of this community is to mask. Nearly everyone wears either a full face covering or a decorative eye mask. Some wear blindfolds. Several small stages the size of queen-sized beds rise above the main floor. On each one is a contraption of some sort—a punishment bench, a St. Andrew’s cross, one of those goddamn fucking couches Marianne is so fond of, a milking table, and a submission horse. A few creative swings and slings are stationed around the perimeter.

It’s never dull here.

Most of the action we heard on the stairs is coming from the nearest riser. A woman is cuffed to the submission horse, ass high in the air being alternately spanked by a Dom’s bare hand and stroked with his fingers. The sub has dropped her head and is panting in moans. One of the monitors stalks by and touches her chin. She lifts her head and moans again.

He walks on.

Similar to my club at home, I have an elevated VIP area with the best view. I walk to the booth tucked into a dark corner. A few people notice me. We say hello, but I don’t linger. A bartender meets us at my table, and I ask for more whiskey and two large bottles of water.

Christian’s face is stoic—lined eyes striking as his gaze moves deliberately from stage to stage, not getting hung up on any one thing in particular. And then he asks, “Are you fluent in Italian?”

“No. Not entirely. Still working on it. I hire a translator for important meetings. I speak more than I understand,” I admit .

“Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

“Not for me.”

“You’re right—this is very different than The Penthouse.”

“Do you have a preference?” I ask randomly.

“Do you?”

We look at each other, and I give him half a grin. “No.”

“Just glad it exists?” he asks.

“I suppose.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I like to watch.”

“And when did you realize that?”

“You mean outside of standard porn?” I ask as the whiskey and water arrive.

Christian nods before getting to work unscrewing the top on the bottle. I arrange the glasses for him to pour it.

“Marianne, actually. She connected online with a whole network of kinky people doing kinky things in Manhattan.”

“Is she a fan of watching also?”

“Not just,” I say. “She wanted to learn and do and be part of it.”

“Sorry. I guess that was a pretty personal question.”

“Why stop now?” I ask. All we’ve done since we got to the hotel is ask questions that are too personal.

“Okay,” he says, throwing back his whiskey in one shot. “Were you into it? Are you still?”

“Yes and yes, but not the same way.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you go into details.”

I laugh as his gaze flicks back to the woman on the submission horse. “It might not seem like it, but I consider this place a lot tamer than the club in New York.”

“How’s that?” he asks.

I gesture at the club. “Well, you don’t see anyone fucking in the open, do you?”

He sends another glance around. “I honestly can’t tell what’s going on in those swings. ”

“The Penthouse is an orgy waiting to happen every night. I’ve never seen that happen here.”

“You guys have orgies up there?” he asks.

“It’s what we’re known for.”

“But no one wears masks,” he says. “How does that even work?”

“The people who stay for the orgies are beyond caring who’s fucking who at that point.”

“Meaning what? Drunk?”

“No—we have a three drink limit, which isn’t to say no one walks in there blitzed, but the staff are good about pulling them aside and sending them home. What I mean is they get turned on. Like so turned on they’ll basically fuck anyone or anything, which is fascinating.”

“What’s fascinating about it?” Christian asks.

“You should come up and watch one night—you tell me.”

He nods toward the dark, salacious playground. “This isn’t really my kind of thing.”

“What is?” I ask, and it’s how I know I’m definitely feeling the whiskey.

He laughs again. “Privacy.”

“Ah, so it’s not the contraptions you object to. It’s witnesses.”

His laugh doesn’t stop, and I notice how perfect his teeth are. How completely his face lights up. I’m thoroughly charmed, and I want more. I want to know everything he’s willing to tell me. I pour him another shot.

“No three drink limit for me?”

“I’m not worried about you,” I tell him.

His eyes narrow at me, and he sits back with his glass. His knees spread, and our thighs touch.

I find myself licking my lips and turning to face him, pretending not to notice what’s happening with our legs. Pretending not to care that I am noticing it.

“You’re right,” he says, his gaze sly and playful. “I’m harmless. ”

While I might have thought the same thing a few hours ago, I’m no longer so sure. “You’re on the payroll. You have to behave.”

“True, true.” He lifts his glass like he wants to toast. I pick up mine and knock it against his before we each take another drink. “And no, I don’t object to contraptions. Everything has a time and place, I’m sure.”

“Even the swings?” I joke.

“Especially the swings.”

We laugh together, and it makes me wonder how long it’s been since I shared a genuine laugh with anyone. It’s so fucking refreshing. Has my life really become so bleak that this feeling is foreign? Is this what connecting feels like? Jesus, how long has it been?

Or maybe this is just what getting drunk feels like.

“So what was your thing?” he asks. “Back in the day. You can be as general or specific as you want.”

“My kink you mean? Besides being a voyeur?”

“Besides that.”

“Dominance,” I admit. “If you don’t want me to get too specific.”

“I said it was up to you.”

“Dominance,” I say again, not sure I want to, either.

“Then maybe you can answer this question. Take that guy for example.”

He points at the spanking, pussy-stroker nearby, drawing multiple orgasms from the woman still on the bench. “What’s he getting out of that?”

“Controlling her pleasure, you mean?”

“Is that what you call it?”

“It’s what it is.”

“Then sure—what’s in it for him?”

“It’s different for everyone,” I say. “Some people dominate because they feel out of control. Some do it because they get off on knowing they’re providing something special for someone they care about—or maybe that they have a rare skill—a pleasure only they can provide for a stranger in need. Sometimes they get off on someone else getting off. It depends on the person. The scene. The sub.”

“Is it more often than not about sex?”

“Even sex isn’t about sex,” I say.

Christian frowns, opening his mouth to say something and then shutting it quickly. “Good point.”

“I doubt very many people on earth have thought about it as much as I have,” I admit.

“So that’s what you do every night up in The Penthouse? Think?”

“How do you know I go every night?”

Christian grins again. “I didn’t, but I do now.”

I shake my head and look out over the floor. A pretty sub is heading toward the table, but I shake her off. She changes direction. “For your information, I do all kinds of things up there. Network. Make deals. Gather interesting information about the people who run the city. And I have a sub,” I add because I’m drunk.

“Oh.” Christian strokes his chin a moment, and I can practically see him running through his mental Rolodex of the women coming in and out of The Penthouse.

“You’re not gonna ask?”

“I’m thinking about asking.”

“South Asian. Long, dark hair. Petite. Tattoo of a star on her right thumb.”

He raises his brows. “How old is she?”

I shrug. “Not my concern.” But if I had to guess, she’s younger than Christian.

“What is your concern?” he asks.

“That she does what she’s told,” I say simply.

“Which is?”

“You’re asking? ”

“Apparently.”

“She’s a pet. Do you know what that is?”

“I could hazard a guess.”

“She wears kitten ears, she purrs and rubs her head against my leg and makes little biscuits on my chest when she sucks my cock.”

He covers his mouth to hide a laugh his face has no hope of disguising. “This turns her on?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“In her case, her obedience is the turn on—her dedication to the role.”

“Do you have sex with her or not?” he asks.

“Sometimes. If it makes sense to.”

“Do you have more than one?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Curious,” he says. “No real reason.”

“It’s just the one,” I say, and I think I might sound ashamed because God knows Marianne has dozens, and Christian is likely aware of all of them. I know better than to ask questions I don’t want to know the answers to.