Page 188 of The Dommes

The crowds part to admit a formidable group of four Dommes, their hair loud, their voices louder, and their boots clapping against the floor with every heavy step. Right in front is Eve Warren, her spiky hair and jewelry enough to make this small group here cross their arms and look the other way. I remember her holding one of my kitchen knives. Formidable, indeed.

I barely recognize the other women. Some of them aren’t from around here, but there’s a high-end convention going on in town and this is probably a once-a-year gathering. Like the worst sorority on campus. Well, worse if you’re someone who prefers their women a bit… docile.

A woman completely unlike the one bringing up the rear.

Kathleen.

She’s scurrying to catch up, holding a coat check in her hand and explaining to Eve that she was held up in the checkroom. They laugh, Eve offering to buy my Katie a drink before they sit down on the other side of the room. Five women. Five Dommes.

Kathleen is very… Domme tonight.

It’s not only her black pantsuit hugging every part of her body. It’s her metallic jewelry hanging down her neck, dangling from her fingers, and mingling with the smoky makeup she’s put on for this night. It’s her gait as she walks, her posture as she sits and drinks, and her manner of speaking to the other women – and men – around her. Commanding. Dominating. Masculine, but with a touch of feminine.

It’s her hair, resting atop her head in a crisp twist decorated with large crystals.

It’s that entrancing look. That demeanor. Countenance. Visage. I don’t fucking care what it is. It’s the way she glances at me before going back to whatever raunchy conversation the other Dommes are having as if I’m not here at all.

Perhaps it’s for the best.

“Mathison,” Jem says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Look alive. We’ve got company.”

Company. Women.

Submissive women, to be exact.

Two of them. They look like best friends, or at least the kind of girls who come to these things together so they don’t have to be alone. This place is safe, as far as them not having to worry about being attacked or stalked, but I imagine it’s still scary for a sub to work up the courage to come to this sort of place by herself, looking for a dominant for tonight, for eternity.

Under normal circumstances, I would consider this my lucky night. You see, this is my last night I’ll have to burn for a while. The opening ball at The Ace is next weekend, and I’ll be ass-deep in running the place until the family is confident enough to fully turn it over to the actual manager.

These aren’t normal circumstances, however. I’m looking at these girls, dressed in matching lingerie and sporting pretty collars, and wishing they would leave. Don’t tempt me. I might take up one of you for an evening of frustrated domination. I’d take you roughly, bitterly, wishing you were a woman named Kathleen instead of the stand-in you are. So, you see, it’s a good idea I do not interact tonight.

I look over at the other group of Dommes. Kathleen is blocked by Eve, but sometimes she leans far enough back that I see the white of her throat. If she were with me right now, I’d suck it until there was no more skin to leave my mark on.

“I’m sorry, ladies,” Jem says in her smooth voice. “I’m taken. My girlfriend is currently not here. This gentlequeer here…” she points to me. “Ira Mathison. Maybe you’ve heard of them.” Jem may use female pronouns with me in our private conversations, but with strangers, I’m always gender-neutral. The way I prefer strangers to see me. Strangers. Not Kathleen. Sigh.

They shake their heads, smiling in apology.

“Ah, well, they’re a real killer. They’re not saying much tonight, though.” She kicks my shin, enough to make me react.

“I’m afraid I’m not available either. Sorry.”

Both girls are crestfallen. Our other friend is not in the mood, even if they’re single. The kind of sex these girls want isn’t the kind our friend can deliver.

So this fellow is incapable of Topping, and Jem isn’t the cheating asshole type. That leaves me, the one everyone thinks is unattached and game to fuck anything that moves and will say, “Yes, Mistress. Yes, my King.”

You know, if I played my cards right, I could probably have both of them tonight.

The thought is so unappealing that I almost blanch at the thought.

“Since when are you unavailable?” Jem asks. “Last I checked, the closest you got to a relationship was with that actress. Isn’t she screwin’ your dad now? Or is that guy in the tabloids somebody else?”

I don’t answer.

“Fine. Be that way.”

After politely nodding, I get up and excuse myself to the restroom.

I don’t go to the restroom.

---