Unforgettable Page 3

  My eyes open wide again. “I-I...”

  “Exactly, not speaking doesn’t mean you don’t approve. Again, Moira, take tonight one moment at a time. Don’t overthink. Tonight is special.”

  “Special?”

  “You will never be here for your first time again.”

  I nod. “You’re right.” I look up at her ruby-studded mask. “You’ll be back?”

  She grins. “I’ll knock first.”

  Taking a deep breath, I watch as Dorothy disappears behind the closing hallway door. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I press my knees together and look down at the remote. I’ve watched porn.

  This is the same, right?

  Lucas

  I secure the black mask over my eyes as I pull my car up to Lace and Leather. It’s been over two years since I last entered this establishment. When I did, Beth was beside me. We hadn’t met here. No, I’d been a regular before meeting her. I never imagined a place like this would be her thing until Dr. Kizer encouraged us to be open with one another. Although we didn’t meet here, our relationship had grown here. I wish there was another place to go, one that didn’t hold memories of her. That is probably why I haven’t been able to enter or even consider visiting.

  It wasn’t until after I ran into Dr. Kizer’s assistant that I even began entertaining the idea of trying to rediscover my dominant side. Not that it was her, the assistant, who brought back those thoughts although I keep recalling the way she smiled at Callie instead of being annoyed. No, she simply reminded me that I’d been a patient of Dr. Kizer’s.

  While I wasn’t ready to see the doctor, I finally got the courage to call. Thankfully, I had her private number, the one she’d shared with me after Beth’s death.

  Obviously, my lack of courage shows that my dominant side left with my wife.

  For some reason, it had taken me years to make the call. Once I did, we spoke for a while. She listened and recommended that I reexplore my thoughts and desires.

  She asked me to investigate my feelings, saying that if I’m not happy with where I am, perhaps I should remember what brought me happiness in the past and made me feel fulfilled.

  Callie brings me happiness, but even so, I still feel like there’s a part of me that is missing. According to Dr. Kizer, before I could rectify that emptiness, I needed to recognize what’s missing—what would make me feel fulfilled. She suggested that once I determine the missing element, I should simply remind myself of what it was like.

  That is why I’m here tonight.

  Part of me fears that a reminder will do the opposite; instead of rekindling that desire, being here will confirm that my sense of control died the day Beth’s car was struck by a distracted driver. It was sudden and there was nothing I could do to stop the chain of events. Perhaps that experience caused me to also lose my dominant nature. Maybe that part of my nature was buried along with the love of my life.

  Or just maybe—and it’s a long shot—as Dr. Kizer said, Beth loved life too much to want me to stop living. Whether it’s at Lace and Leather or an Italian restaurant, I owe it to the love we shared to work my way out of my self-imposed isolation and try to remember how to live.

  “Mr. Santana.”

  I straighten my shoulders. Mr. Santana is the name I used years ago. Hearing it without a missus sounds wrong. “Jonathon,” I say to the man inside the entrance.

  “Sir, it’s nice to see you again.”

  My gaze moves about the familiar entry. “It’s nice to be back.”

  That isn’t a lie. Just stepping through the heavy wooden doors fills me with something that’s been absent. There’s a sense of power and an aura of control that permeates the air of Lace and Leather.

  “Sir, would you like to enter the bourbon bar for your customary drink?”

  Sir.

  It’s a customary greeting and yet within these walls it holds much more significance. With each reminder of Lace and Leather, my neck straightens and my circulation increases speed.

  “Yes, I would like that.”

  A few moments later, I’m sitting at the shiny mahogany bar, taking in the recognizable sights and smells. Like a good cigar, the air is rich with scents. Before me the bar is well stocked with only the top labels. The only thing missing would be the customary mirrored backdrop. Mirrors only appear at Lace and Leather for intimate purposes.

  “Sir, what can I do for you?” The petite brunette is wearing a tight red dress, its bodice pulled tight pushing her small breasts upward, and her eyes shine through the openings of a black lace mask. Black lace on a woman means she’s not only a server, but is also a member when she so desires.

  “Two fingers of Blanton’s, neat.”

  “Coming right up.”

  A few moments later, she’s setting the crystal tumbler in front of me. “Sir, it’s good to see you back. I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Savannah, and I would be honored to welcome you back to Lace and Leather myself.”

  Not only isn’t she my type, she’s far too eager for my taste.

  That isn’t to mean I want an unwilling partner. I enjoy trepidation. I thrive on the endorphins that come about when the submissive relinquishes her fears and replaces them with trust. “Thank you, Savannah.” We both know that isn’t her real name. “Tonight, I’m just checking out the changes.” I sighed. “And what has stayed the same.”

  “Yes, Sir. If you change your mind, I’m here.”

  “If I do, I’ll let you know.”

  “Mr. Santana.”

  I turn toward the familiar woman’s voice as a smile curls my lips. “Dorothy. I see you are still here.”

  “Every night.” Her long eyelashes bat through her ruby-studded mask. “I prefer the nights I’m not working.”

  A scoff comes from my throat.

  The ruby studs indicate she likes it particularly rough. If I were to guess, her nights of not working are in reality a lot of work. Accepting the sting of a cane or slashes of a bullwhip is both physical and mental exertion. While that degree of domination isn’t my thing, I have utter respect for both the Dominants and submissives who enjoy that lifestyle.

  “Oh, I can’t fool you,” she says. “It’s good to see you back. Tonight it’s my job to be sure our VIP guests are satisfied. Tell me, Sir, what will that take or who?”

  I shake my head. “Dorothy, tonight is...” I’m not certain how to finish the sentence.

  “Mr. Santana, Lace and Leather is at your disposal. Feel free to wander. Off-limit rooms are locked.” She grinned. “Everything else is purposely accessible.”

  “I believe I will take a moment and enjoy my bourbon.”

  “The night is young,” she says, handing me a card. “Before you were married, you were one of the best Doms with the new submissives.” She nods toward the card. “It’s her first time. No pressure, but she’s upstairs.”

  As Dorothy walks away, I look down at the card in my hand. It contains no personal information. It is simply white with a room number. White means a novice. The idea intrigues me.

  Maybe I could simply look in on her.

  Instead of taking the main staircase, I enter the VIP hallway and push the button for the private elevator. The scissor type door opens as a uniformed man I don’t recognize nods.

  “Floor, Sir?” he asks.

  I take one more look at the card. “Two.”

  We don’t say another word as the elevator moves upward. Once the gate is opened, I slip into the VIP hallway that leads behind the private rooms. Each room has its own private rear viewing room, an area where rooms may be viewed singularly or as a couple. The one I entered has only one chair. It’s leather and large, the kind of furniture that radiates respect, a throne of types, more like those seen in modern-day CEO offices, not ancient throne rooms.

  Entering, I bypass the chair and go directly to the window. Pressing the button, the one that brings the darkened room into view, I place my fists on the windowsill and lean forward.

  At firs
t glance, I note that the woman inside the room, in the black dress and white mask is beautiful. I could imagine her to be the woman from the supermarket if I tried. She has long blonde hair that cascades over her bare shoulders. Her posture is straight, her sights set on the scene unfolding in the window before her. Every few seconds, she squirms, her body reacting to what she’s seeing. I take in each movement, the way her nipples tent the bodice of her dress as her breasts heave. My gaze lowers and I notice the way the hem of her skirt is balled in her grip, showing her shapely legs. Her feet within high-heeled shoes fidget, sliding upon the hard surface flooring. It’s as her lips open that my dick remembers what it’s capable of doing.

  “What are you watching, beautiful? Is it the first time you’ve watched real people?”

  My questions are not audible. Yet with each passing second, my bloodstream flows, coursing faster through my veins, reminding me why I first found Lace and Leather.

  Is it possible that there’s hope?

  Could I come back to life?

  Back to life.

  I ponder the thought as the blonde continues to bunch the hem of her black skirt, pulling it higher, exposing more and more of her thighs.

  Life.

  Maybe it is time to remember what that means.

  Marji

  After the door shuts, I sit for a moment in the dark room alone.

  There is no one to keep me here and no lock upon the door. It is my chance to leave Lace and Leather and never look back. The thought appears and just as quickly vanishes. I’ve made it this far and I don’t want to turn back, not yet.

  Call it curiosity...or maybe, work research.

  That sounds reasonable.

  I simply want to experience what I transcribe or at least see it.

  Slowly, I convince myself to turn on the window and peer through the glass. After all, Dorothy said the couple wants to be seen. They want it. I recognize the fabrication I’m contriving to justify my presence. The truth is that I could call this research; however, as the tightening of my stomach continues to twist and the ache between my legs becomes more apparent, I admit that being here is more than research or even curiosity.

  I want to see and to discover the world I’ve only heard about, only transcribed others’ thoughts and feelings about.

  I want to find out what it’s like.

  As my hand trembles, I lift the remote and click the button—not the blue button—the one that brings the window to life.

  Such as on a television, the scene before me illuminates, coming into view. There are two people, a man and a woman. They’re wearing masks.

  Do they know one another?

  Are they married?

  Are they patients of Dr. Kizer’s?

  Do I know them?

  My questions fade as my breath catches. None of that matters. I’m mesmerized by the intensity of their stares. Even with masks covering part of their faces, the connection they share is evident in the way the man is looking at the woman and the way she’s looking at him. They may want to be viewed, but that isn’t their prime concern. Their expressions mirror thoughts I’ve transcribed.

  There is no one else in the world, no concern other than the other person.

  The man is taller, his wide chest bare, yet his hips and long legs are covered by tailored black trousers. The woman on the other hand is mostly nude, wearing only a black lace bra and thong.

  His lips move, yet I can’t hear. The lack of sound doesn’t diminish the visible authority in his body language.

  I click another button and my dark room fills with this man’s deep, dominating timbre. “I told you to wear red.”

  My heart thumps as his voice rumbles through my being. He isn’t even talking to me, yet I feel his tone and cadence.

  “I-I’m sorry. I forgot,” the woman says, her eyes no longer staring upward but now veiled by her long lashes as her head bows, her chin falling near her chest.

  The man reaches for her chin, lifting her eyes to him. “Have you also forgotten your manners when you address me?”

  Her head shakes. “No, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

  “You forgot. That is your excuse? Are you saying I’m not memorable—forgettable?”

  “No, Sir. I-I just...forgot.”

  Behind the two of them is a four-poster bed covered by a red satin comforter. The room is painted a dark gray. In appearance, it’s like any other bedroom in any other house. I suck in a breath and sit taller as the man instructs the woman to remove her black panties and place her hands and chest on the bed, reminding her that he wanted red and that’s what he’s going to get.

  I squeeze my thighs together, watching, as he reaches for the buckle of his belt.

  Holy crap. He’s going to punish her.

  I bite my lower lip as my neck straightens. I’ve read about this from the female clients in Dr. Kizer’s practice. I’ve read their thoughts of appreciation of submission and their desire for firm boundaries.

  Intellectually, it seems wrong to not only accept this treatment, but desire it.

  Desire isn’t intellectual.

  It’s not a thought process.

  Dr. Kizer reminds her clients of that. She says not to overthink—to feel.

  It makes sense in the abstract, yet her notes are different. They are simply words on a recording. This before me is more—intense, real, and just... more.

  I’m not only hearing it. I am seeing it, their expressions, their nonverbal communication, and their peace and contentment.

  It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. If I were to take a picture of what I’m seeing, I am not sure I could put the powerful emotions into words.

  It’s their shared total acceptance that takes my breath away.

  The woman doesn’t protest, doing exactly as she is told.

  The man isn’t angry or upset.

  I’m swept up in the scene.

  It’s sensual, sexy, and utterly compelling.

  Both of these people are exactly where they want to be, doing what they want to do.

  And all at once, I gasp and my body flinches.

  I’d been too wrapped up to notice him removing his belt when the leather slices through the air.

  A whistle and a crack.

  The sound reverberates through my darkened room, prickling my skin as the leather makes contact with hers.

  “Oh!” I call out. Yet the other woman through the window doesn’t make a sound. While her hands ball and she fists the comforter beneath her, her only other movement appears to be one of relief. Instead of tensing, her muscles relax. Her spine pushes toward the bedding and her legs spread giving both of us a view of her most sensitive parts.

  There’s another lash and then another.

  I fidget upon the sofa, imagining the sensation on my backside. My head shakes, wondering how many more she can take. While her skin displays the evidence of his punishment, it’s her increased squirming that has both his and my attention.

  The man pauses, lowering the belt to the floor, and rubs his palm over his artistic creation. With the concentration of a blind man reading Braille, he touches each raised, angry lash mark.

  The woman looks back, craning her head over her shoulder as tears stream down her cheeks, yet she remains mute.

  I shouldn’t be enthralled. I shouldn’t be turned on. My core shouldn’t be growing wet and my breasts heavy. None of that should be happening, yet it is.

  “Will you remember next time?” he asks.

  “Yes, Sir.” When he doesn’t respond, she adds, “Please, Sir.”

  I squeeze my legs together tighter, feeling her unspoken request twisting inside me.

  He teases her tender skin, dipping closer and closer to her core. “You begged. Tell me, what you are begging for?”

  I hold my breath as I wait for her answer—the one I know.

  “Please, Sir, I’m needy.”

  The man grins. “Only good girls get to come.”

  “I won’t for
get again.”

  “I’m not certain I believe you.”

  “I won’t,” she says, her voice now cracking with emotion as her head shakes.

  I have the urge to get up, go out in the hallway, open their door, go inside that room, and plead her case. Yet like her, I’m paralyzed, unable to move away from where I’m seated.

  The man unlatches her black bra. He guides her to stand and spins her around. Dropping the bra to the floor, he asks, “These tits...” His lips curl upward into a menacing grin as he tweaks each nipple. “...what color?”

  “Red, Sir.” She blinks and winces yet remains facing him, willing and ready for whatever he has planned.

  Tipping his chin toward the bed, he delivers his next command.

  Swallowing, I reach for the hem of my black dress as the woman climbs onto the bed, purposely lying on her back and dragging her wounded backside over the blanket below. The infinitesimal flinches are the only indication that she’s tender, yet again, she doesn’t complain.

  The man steps away and then reappears with a long leather crop.

  I cringe as the air fills with the sound of a slap, and the crop comes down hard on one breast and then the other.

  Reflexively, I reach up, covering my own. It’s as if I’m there, not only watching, but also experiencing the pain. It’s then I realize I’ve lifted the hem of my dress and my knees are no longer together, but spread...giving me access...

  Suddenly, a window I thought was a mirror lights in the back of the room.

  Startled, I turn toward the light and gasp.

  Through the glass is a dark-haired man, wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and charcoal-gray tie. The way the suit is tailored and with the coat open, his broad shoulders and trim waist are accentuated. My teeth tug on my lower lip as I take him in, for a moment wondering if he’s real.

  He leans forward, appearing taller and more menacing. His black mask is inches from the window. I’m drawn to the dark eyes peering through the openings and their intensity as they stare at me.

  “Keep going,” he says, his voice deeper than the man in the other room, more commanding.