Page 4 of The Masquerade: Room 2

“Exactly.”

We chat back and forth for a few hours, the day’s tension dissipating as I sit back and watch my friends, chiming in when I feel like it. Next to the operating room, this is where I feel most myself—here, in this club, with this band of kinksters. There’s no judgment when I step through these doors.

Expectation is something that’s never really bothered me. When I went to med school, I was different than most. I clawed my way into an Ivy League university, scraping for financial aid and working whatever jobs I could fit around my grueling schedule.

Luxury wasn’t in my vocabulary, and no one expected anything more than a basic nine to five from me. After my dad died at her hand, my mom ended up working three jobs just to keep a roof over our heads. In the end, she became an alcoholic, and I was a burden she couldn’t cope with anymore. I was put into foster care and learned to depend only on myself.

My mom drank herself to death when I was ten, and the sad thing is, it didn’t impact my day-to-day life.

I left the group home the second I could afford to find a shithole apartment to live in until I got a full ride to college through every academic scholarship going, and moved into the dorms at Princeton.

When I found BDSM, it was a lightbulb moment—a way for me to exact control in every aspect of my life. I need order, balance, and, above all, consent. I know my mom was plagued by the abuse my dad subjected her to for years. I don’t want any part of relationships, not even with my subs. That’s why I train. I’m a safe space for women to explore their sexual desires and figure out what they want in a Dom. When they understand their wants and needs, they move on, and so do I.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Earth to Pierce.” Flex’s voice brings me back to the group.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“How can you hack into people’s brains all day?” His vernacular makes me laugh.

“If I hacked, all of my patients would be dead or in a vegetative state. What I do is poetry in motion, my friend.”

“Most guys with your kind of job pressure are subs. It always amazes me that you want control of every fucking minute of your life.”

“I had very little control growing up. I’m a walking cliché, Flex. I like everything to be perfect. I teach doctors. I operate. I teach submissives. We fuck. All is right in the world,” I say as I drain my drink and signal for another.

Dalton nods in my direction. “Not on call tonight?”

“Nope. I have the weekend off, which virtually never happens.”

“Then you can wade in on the training floor tomorrow?”

“Sure. I have a last session with my current sub tomorrow night. I can swing by a few hours early, and you can walk me through it.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Another round of drinks arrives, courtesy of Dalton. “Are you coming to the masquerade?”

“Did I miss the memo?”

“We’re having a masquerade ball for new members and prospective members who’ve been waitlisted. It’ll be a fun night.”

“Depends on when it is.”

“Two weeks from tonight.”

“I’ll check my schedule. I have a few subs to interview for training.”

“Take a night off, brother. Masquerades are for no strings, no training, no rules fun.”

“Does that mean you guys are going to lose yourself in the crowd?” I anticipate Dalton’s answer, amused by the furrow of his brow.

“Anyone so much as looks at my kitten the wrong way, they’ll require a doctor in the house.”

“You’re too predictable, Dal.”

“Says the robot Dom!” He chuckles.

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