Page 16 of The Masquerade: Room 2

“I need something more.”

“How do you know that, Freya? Why not dip your toe in before you dive off the highest springboard headfirst?”

“I can’t explain it. I just… know.”

“Okay, then I’ll be as supportive as I can. How does that look at the club? Am I allowed to be your friend there, or does the mask apply outside the private room?”

“I…” Shit. I didn’t think this through. Having Celest there would give me away almost immediately. I don’t want anyone to know who I am, and I do not want to know the identity of my Dom. The plan is to learn, not socialize. I don’t need a boyfriend. I want a man to teach me about BDSM and myself.

“Yeah, see the gaping hole in your idea now?”

“I won’t be anywhere other than the Dom’s private room. In and out. I won’t be sitting at the bar making small talk with people.”

“But you should. What better way to learn about BDSM than to make some friends? There is so much more to it. So many fun kinks to discover and explore.”

“I know. That’s why I want a man who can help me figure out my kinks, but I’m not ready to be known. You must understand my reluctance.”

“Not really. Venom is an elite club with NDAs signed by everyone who walks through the door. Staff and patrons included. It’s a safe space to express your wildest desires, Freya.”

“That’s great, and maybe somewhere down the line, I will take full advantage of it, but for now, I want to remain anonymous.”

Celest shrugs, rolling her eyes as she grabs our coffees, and we head out for a walk around Central Park. The weather is beautiful this time of year, and the city is full of possibilities. A thrill courses through me as we leisurely stroll past other people enjoying their day. He could be anyone. We might have been in the same place at the same time in the past few weeks and been none the wiser.

There’s something so naughty about it, and I love it.

When I’m done with my coffee, I discard the cup in the nearest trashcan and pull my phone from my pocket, typing out a quick message as Celest talks about her plans for the weekend.

Me: Hello, Sir. I was just thinking about you.

I’m not expecting those three little dots to appear so quickly, my heart skipping a beat. I saved his number with a contact name that excites me.

Sir: Is that right? Exactly what were you thinking, little one?

Me: How you could be anyone. That we might have walked past each other on the streets of Manhattan or admired the same flowers in Central Park.

Sir: Does it make you wet thinking that you don’t even know what I look like? That I’ve tasted your arousal as you bucked against my face?

Me: Yes.

My sex responds to his words, the memory of his warm, sexy voice coaxing me to orgasm that night.

Sir: Have you forgotten your manners already?

Me: No, Sir.

Why does it turn me on to have a stranger demand I call him Sir?

Sir: I want you to take your panties off and keep them in your pocket for the rest of the day, little one.

Me: I can’t. I’m not at my apartment. I’m out in public, Sir.

Sir: There would be no fun in it if you were at home. Are you wearing a skirt?

Me: Yes, Sir.

Sir: Then be a good girl and find somewhere to. Take. Them. Off.

I feel my cheeks flush as I read his text, a tingling warmth spreading throughout my body.

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