Chimera (12 page)

A
rriving at The Warehouse
, I see it’s aptly named. The industrial look from the outside is very unassuming. There’s nothing giving away what hides inside. The signage on the front of the building simply states the name in a clean, bold font. It’s dusky dark, with no one in sight. The club doesn’t open for another hour, but we wanted to find it while we still had some daylight. I promised Nate I’d feed him for tagging along. He’s a cheap date.

After scoping the building out, we head over to the North Davidson Art District, better known as NODA to the locals, for some of the best fish tacos on the planet. Talk about art, these guys put masterpieces on the plate every single time. I have driven the hour and a half just for dinner. It’s that good.

With a full belly, but no alcohol, we find ourselves in the lobby of a very busy club. While the outside is nondescript, the inside is sensational—an artist’s dream and an architect’s fantasy. The exposed beams, the raw central air system, all of which is metallic, clean. The walls in the lobby are rich, royal blue, with exquisite brown leather furniture that screams comfort. Everything’s oversized and grandiose, appealing to the clientele James caters to. I have to admit it’s likely James knew who I was if the artwork on the walls is any indication of who
he
is. He’s a collector of fine works, several of which are local.

Just off the lobby are what I’m guessing are locker rooms or changing rooms of sorts. To the left, men, to the right, women; their exits are on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling wall just beyond their entrances. It’s not possible to see anything beyond the wall from where I’m standing, and in order to get into the respective locker rooms, each person has to place their thumb on a reader. The door closes completely between each entrant, meaning everyone clocks himself or herself in, and I’d bet money they have to do the same thing to exit.

No one seems bothered at all by the wait as they chat with other people in line, seeming to have established casual friendships. Controlled. Sera was right. There’s no one in this facility James isn’t personally aware of.

“Bastian?” A voice booms to my right, startling me. I stand in greeting, extending my hand. A warm, unassuming-looking guy, about six feet tall, smiles at me and takes my hand.

“James, I presume.”

“You would be correct.”

Turning toward Nate, I say, “This is my best friend, Nate.”

“Great. Glad you guys could come by tonight. Things are starting to slow down a bit so we should be good to talk in my office.”

F
our hours later
, Nate and I walk out of The Warehouse. James spent a great deal of time with us, explaining how his mentor program works, membership to the club being mandatory because of the exposure to other clients, then he took us on a tour of the facility. Holy shit, first off, the place is deceiving from the outside. Don’t get me wrong, it looks huge, but you can’t see the basement floor, which doubles its size. The bottom floor is an intricate maze of rooms, some set up for specific types of play, having grouped types of equipment in them, bondage, machines, whips, et cetera, while others simply have beds with eyehooks covering them. The ground floor is more of a huge studio with few walls separating the space. People play publicly, baring all. I wasn’t as surprised as Nate was to see people engaging in sexual activity in the open, but no one has any interest in what others are doing.

There were a few classes underway where people had crowded around, but no one paid any attention to the couples or small groups who were playing together. James points out the sanitation rules along with health requirements. There’s no penetration, oral, vaginally, or anally without condoms. None, not even for married couples. Violating that rule is grounds for immediate termination of your membership and dismissal from the premises. There are security guards roaming the facility ensuring rules are followed, but I never saw one interfere or even interact with someone who hadn’t sought them out. They are truly there to keep play safe.

James has monitors assigned to all new subs. They have to log a certain number of hours of play in the club in order to ditch the shadow. Apparently, subs have a tendency to get into situations they don’t know they can say no to because they don’t have the knowledge or experience they need, so they either have a mentor or a monitor. I’m in total awe of the entire place, everything about it. Every detail is in fine tune, perfectly placed. He spent a great deal of time and money to hone this into a well-oiled machine.

“What the hell was that Bastian?”

“Not your thing?”

“People were having sex on swings in front of a hundred other people. Is that
your
thing?”

“I’m not after the kinky sex, Nate. You know that. I want what James can teach me about being assertive, more confident, dominance in general. I want to learn to be a leader, not just for Sera but also for me. The last few years have kicked my ass and my self-confidence. I’ve never been super outgoing, but I was always sure of myself. I need that back.”

“If your motivation is truly for self-betterment, I’m all for it. I just want you to be sure before you put that kind of money on the line that there’s not another way to accomplish the same goal.”

“I’m going to think about it for a couple days before committing to anything.” And I will. It’s a large investment. The background checks alone I’m sure cost a fortune, the blood tests another chunk of change. Sera wasn’t kidding about the heavy vetting. I wonder if all clubs are like this or just The Warehouse because of the people they service.

“Keep in mind that means you’ll be coming to Charlotte on a regular basis as well. This isn’t just a hop, skip, and jump down the road. It’s ninety-eight miles from your house to the front door. You’ll need to commit several nights a month for this to be effective and worth the money.”

All are valid points I will have to consider. I’ve never been the type to drop this kind of cash on anything. Sylvie spent weeks convincing me why it was better to own than rent because the thought of taking large sums of money out of savings to put down blew my mind.

“Wasn’t the whole reason for wanting to go out of town to keep Sera from finding out about it?”

“That and I didn’t want to run into her while I was learning.”

“Well, she already knows, and from what I gather, the learning process is years long, it’s not a role you’ll undertake in the near future.”

“Again, I’m not looking to assume the
role
. I want the confidence a Dom possesses. If the other stuff comes with it, great, but that’s not really what I’m after.”

“But is that what Sera’s after?”

I’ve wondered the same thing. I want to be what she needs, but I don’t think that’s what she currently has. Her needs are twofold: first, to give up control, directed; second, pain. I don’t know enough about her desire for the latter to confidently say I can fill that need, but I did mention it to James. We talked briefly about ways to meet her desire and simultaneously, learn to use the tools of a masochist.

“One step at a time, Nate.”

A
week later
, I hadn’t made a decision about The Warehouse nor did I engage in a conversation with Sera about the night I’d spent there. She hinted over and over at wanting information, but I’ve ignored her attempts to snoop. I need to work through this on my own but she’s relentless in her approach today.

“Come on, Bastian, at least tell me what it was like inside. It’s the elite of the elite around here. Without going somewhere in New York or LA, it doesn’t get any bigger. Except maybe Baltimore, which is just weird in and of itself,” she begs, her need for information cute.

“What do you want to know? I mean it’s gorgeous, but I have nothing to compare it to, so I can’t say it’s better at this or needs improvement here. I can tell you the security is impeccable, the equipment all appears to be brand new, and the focus on health safety is very high.”

“What about the people? Did you recognize anyone?” Her face is eager for knowledge, childlike in wonder.

“You know even if I did, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to share that with you.”

Her pouting is about the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. I resist the urge to place my lips on hers, to feel their warmth on mine. Jesus, the temptation is overwhelming.

“Are you going to join?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I think it would be fun to be able to go play there.”

“You would want to go play with me?” Interesting turn.

“Bastian, you know I love you dearly, but the kind of playing I’m referring to isn’t something you can just pick up in a week. You could really hurt someone.” The irony of her statement is not lost on me. “I don’t have sex in clubs if that’s what you’re wondering. I only play publicly for pain. Someone skilled with a whip or a cat of nine tails can send me soaring. The Warehouse is known for the Masters they have behind leather. So yes, I would love to go play, in that respect.”

“So you want me to join so another man can beat you?” Low blow. Luckily for me, she didn’t take it that way or missed the insinuation altogether. “That’s an expensive endeavor. Why don’t you become a member?”

“I’ve tried, Bastian. I’m on a wait list.” My mouth falls open at her proclamation.

“What? James never mentioned a wait list.”

“How do you think I knew he was aware of who you are?”

“But you’re just as big as I am, Sera. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nowhere even close, but thank you.”

“I haven’t made up my mind. James called me this morning to see if I had made a decision. I told him the things I am struggling with, none of which have anything to do with his club. He referred me to a guy locally at Stone Ground. Ever heard of it?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s another high-end club here in town, but much smaller and nowhere near the clientele of The Warehouse. It’s actually run out of one of the homes over off Augusta Road. Their pool house is dedicated to playing. The house functions as an office of sorts. Old money, completely different kind of place, but just as reputable.”

“I called them today. The owner’s name is Zane. Had a great conversation with him as well. Truth be told, I think I can get what I’m looking for locally for a lot less money. The investment of time would be better spent actually with a mentor than on the road for two hundred miles a trip. I told them both I’d make a decision by the end of the weekend and call them both back.”

“Are you leaning toward Stone Ground?”

“I like the anonymity The Warehouse offers—well the distance that adds to the anonymity—but for the type of mentoring I’m really looking for, I think Stone Ground makes more sense. I want to work one-on-one with a Dom or Master before I try anything public. It’s the mentality I want to adopt. I want my confidence back.” It’s true, but I don’t mention the other things I hope to gain in the process. Until I’m a man she respects and can see herself with, until she sees the transformation, acknowledging what I want from her would be fruitless and ruin any chance I might have in the future.

Conversation over, I made my decision in the midst of it. Stone Ground it is, for the time being. A year or two from now, The Warehouse might make more sense, but right now, local is where I need to be. When Sera leaves, I call James and let him know. He extends an open invitation, which I will definitely take him up on. Zane is happy to hear from me, sooner than anticipated, and seems surprised I chose him over James, but I really think personality wise, he’s a better fit for how I learn. We agree to get together tomorrow to set up a schedule, classes of sorts with individual instruction. His approach is a more public one than I expected, but right now, I’m open to just about anything to get me started.

Elated, I walk up to the front door of Stone Ground. There’s no sign; as Sera mentioned, the club is in one of the homes in the old money district, completely unidentifiable as anything other than a mansion on Crescent Avenue. A beautiful girl greets me after I ring the bell. She’s clad in a modern maid outfit of leather and lace showcasing her phenomenal assets. She escorts me down several halls to a rather grandiose office, and introduces me to Zane before she exits.

If I were a betting man, I would’ve lost my ass describing this guy by his voice on the phone, or maybe it’s simply the idea of who I thought he should be because of his title. Master instills a certain level of respect and fear. I envisioned a larger man, especially with a name like Zane. Before me stands a ginger, I’m guessing about five ten, average build, mid- to late-thirties. There’s nothing remarkable about him, although he does have striking green eyes and a splattering of freckles. When he reaches out to shake my hand, I get the first glimpse of authority. This man exudes it. If a handshake can show you a lot about a man, this one is great. He didn’t exert force to crush my fingers, but something about his posture, the shake, and the way he introduced himself without ever breaking eye contact told me I made the right choice. Zane is a man I want to learn from.

“Bastian, please, have a seat.” He motions to a large leather chair to the side of the room as he closes the door to provide us some semblance of privacy. “I know we spoke some about what you’re looking for and hoping to gain from having a mentor, but I wanted to go into a little more depth about what I’m expecting from you.”

“Certainly, the more clarification you can give me, the easier it will be for me to follow instructions.”

“You mentioned having a desire to learn about the dynamics here, but also in gaining your confidence again in everyday life. I’m assuming there’s a woman involved?”

“Two actually. My wife who passed away almost six years ago, and the first woman—hell, the first person—who’s sparked any sort of life in me since that day. I want to make my wife proud of the man I was able to become after almost losing myself, and I want to have the confidence to be the man the new woman needs. I’m a long way from either place, but until I can be happy with who I am, I’m of no use to anyone else.”

“I respect that. Most people don’t recognize they need to be whole before they become a pair. That being said, I really want to focus more on your confidence personally, and I want to do that by teaching you how to respect a Dom or a Master. You will not be a sub, but you will treat me with the same respect a sub would. You will do as you’re told without question, and you will trust the things I have you do are purposeful and to benefit your growth. I don’t believe anyone can lead unless they first have followed. It’s critical for any successful Dom or Master to be able to relate to their sub or slave. They can only do so if they’ve been in that role, and every Dom or Master here has been trained in this same manner.”

I listen, not really knowing what any of this means.

“This is not a transformation that will take place overnight—you know that, right?” he asks toward the end of our conversation.

“Yes. I’m aware and I’m invested for the long haul.”

“Glad to hear it. Let’s get started.”

My God, the contracts and lists: lists of interests, things I will do, things I won’t do, things I might do, some sexual, some routine life events. The contract outlining the training and my expectations is very clear, with detailed explanations.

I look up to him. “You want to know everywhere I go and what my plans are while I’m there?”

“Yes, you’re accountable to someone else from now until you are released. When you stop seeing this as a requirement and start thinking of it as a privilege, someone cares for you enough to want to know your whereabouts, you will start to change the way you view yourself. You’ll start to see your worth. It’s a tedious task initially, but it’ll become second nature.”

“I don’t want to bother you with that kind of thing, though.”

“That’s exactly why you need to do it. It’s not a bother; it’s a commitment I’m making to you, to ensure your safety and wellbeing. As a Master, I enjoy the responsibility it brings, the confidence that I’m caring for someone else. And, Bastian, if I don’t think it’s in your best interest, you won’t be going.”

My face contorts in all kinds of confusion. “Seriously?”

“Your response going forward is simply, ‘Yes, Sir.’ Trust the process.” He smiles warmly at me, easing my discomfort.

“Yes, Sir.” I sign on the dotted line, agreeing to all aspects of the contract, knowing if I violate them, he can either punish me or release me, and if he violates them, I have the option to walk away as well, but no recourse for punishment I notice.

Before I leave, we decide I will meet with him every morning at nine o’clock in workout clothing, five days a week. He also has me give him a basic outline of my typical day, who my friends are, people I associate with, et cetera, reminding me I’m never to leave my house without expressed consent from him via phone or text unless prearranged, and even then, I’m to text him when leaving and returning and any stops in between. I confirm my understanding, clutching my copy of my contract. He hugs me goodbye, which I find a little awkward, but I go with it anyhow, and agree to see him in the morning in workout gear.

Walking back to my house, I ponder everything Zane said, wondering how well I will do reporting to someone else, learning to respect them as well as myself. Everything he said about building self-esteem made sense in theory, but practical application might be a different story. I’ve already figured out openly doubting him or disputing him is not the way to go, and I realize how quickly he formed a bond with me. I don’t want to let him down. I want to follow his instruction so he can see me succeed, be the man I want to be. I want him to know the time he’s investing in me is not wasted. I smile at the thought of making someone proud again. Sylvie was always proud of me, Nate occasionally, too. It’s someone new, who has no reason to be, who doesn’t think I’m great because I can paint—someone I earn that from, especially someone who teaches me a skill. That will make me happy. Eager to please, I do as instructed by texting Zane as soon as I get home.

Me
: Arrived home

Zane
: Sir

This is confusing.

Zane
: I arrived home, Sir.

And so it begins.

Me
: I arrived home, Sir.

My day continues as normal, spending the majority of my time painting. As the sun starts to set, I realize I never told Zane about Nate coming by every night. I quickly hack out a text to him apologizing for the oversight. He asks a couple of questions about Nate and indicates he’d like to meet him. Before I know what I’ve done, I’ve invited him over.

I often wonder if the world is conspiring against me. Mother Nature never seems to be my friend, or karma, or whoever it is controlling people’s actions. Zane’s right on time, Nate’s late, and by great misfortune, Sera shows up unexpectedly in the midst of the chaos. She had no idea Zane was coming, and I wasn’t ready to out myself about my true motivation in this endeavor. Of course, she makes fast friends with Zane, Nate still holds her at arm’s length, afraid of the damage she could do to me, and the entire situation is awkward at best.

Zane hangs back when Nate bugs out and Sera finally excuses herself. No sooner has the front door shut than Zane turns to me. “She’s the girl?”

Letting out a frustrated sign, I admit, “Yes, Sir.”

He nods his head in understanding but doesn’t say anything about her before letting himself out. “Tomorrow at nine sharp.” He doesn’t wait for a reply.