Page 8 of Yield to Me

Chapter 5

In between green and gray buildings stood a wide brick edifice, Surrender in blue winding, limb-like letters above a black door. It opened into a small lobby. A large shouldered bouncer asked for my name and ID, checked his list, then waved me in. Soft music fluttered down from hidden speakers, a low raspy voice accompanied by heavy bass. Candles flickered against the walls, with tufted couches and bean bags neatly arranged beneath them. The bar to the right had a bartender in a gray vest shaking a tumbler. An older man with a distinctive brown mustache sat at the bar, clutching a younger woman’s leash as she kneeled on the ground. A cocktail waitress in a gold bikini passed me, carrying cocktails on a tray, going to the back of the building. My gaze followed her; there were stairs leading up and down at the far end of the room.

I ordered a glass of wine even though I had no intention of drinking it. It was something to do, and I wanted to fit in. I wandered to the back of the room. Black and white movies played projected on the walls, of men in suits and women in feathered masks and chains. I looked away, afraid I was visibly blushing. I walked quicker.

To go up or to go down, I wondered. It seemed like either way, I was going down a rabbit hole where it would be impossible to find my way back. If Owen saw me here, I wouldn’t be able to explain myself besides saying I was curious, and then what would he think? A muscular, naked man came up the stairs, covered in a thick sheen of sweat, his skin like marble. He knocked into my arm trying to get to the main floor. I grimaced at the touch and wondered what he was doing down there to be so sweaty.

“Miss Glass,” a deep male voice said. I saw Owen coming down the stairs. Even in the dark red lit stairwell, his green eyes were vibrant and piercing, and they held me tightly. I held my breath, noticing how with each step, we were closer and closer together. It was like he carried a magnetic field with him, drawing me into his trap.

“Mister Lowell,” I said. I held out my hand to shake his, but thought better of it, and pretended like I was fixing my hair. Smooth, real smooth. His eyebrow lifted.

“Have you made the rounds yet?” he asked. I shook my head. “Good. I’ll do the honors. Let’s start on the main floor.”

Owen led me to the lobby I had walked through, explaining the need for ‘a resting area,’ where people could relax and observe comfortably until their next activities began.

“But it’s sensual,” he said. “The movies are all vintage adult films. Tame, but enticing.” He grinned at the current scene dancing on the wall—a woman putting her cigarette out on a man’s shoulder.

“Tame?” I asked.

“To me.”

His words hung in the air like an invisible hair tickling my neck. I was relieved that he was too busy showing me around to see me blush. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I wondered. Tame to Owen could mean a myriad of things. My hands were sweaty, and I glanced down at his; each finger was relaxed, strong and elegant. I thought about his hands on my thighs, my stomach, prying into my flesh; would they be soft like his lips, or hard and weathered, even if he was the business type?

I quickly ushered the thoughts out of my head. A week ago, I had scowled at him in the gallery, hating his smug behavior. I don’t need a man like that, I reminded myself. No one does. And yet I followed him down the stairs, deeper into his mysterious club, unable to stop thinking about his hands gripping my hips as he pulled me closer to him. Get ahold of yourself, I thought. Maybe I needed to go on a date with Bob, the old Battery Operated Boyfriend.

The walls were painted red and black downstairs, but it was brighter, and I could see why. Dozens of people were scattered throughout the floor, each buried in their own fantasies. A man was tying a woman up in purple ropes to the left, linking the cables to a large metal hook. When the light hit the hook, it was like the metal flashed its teeth at us, daring us to come forward. A woman with a shaved head was tickling another woman who was bound by wrist restraints to an arch above her. A short black man leaned against a leather padded x-shaped cross, panting as a woman of Amazonian height beat him with her bare hands. Two men and two women were lying in a bed to the left, each switching mouths and partners without opening their eyes. The way they touched each other, it was like they were all one being, their fingers and toes growing roots to the bed beneath them.

Heat crept up my legs to my stomach, and I clenched my fists. I looked back at the stairs, thinking of how long it would take to run to the front door. No, I thought, Play it cool. You’re an artist. You’ve seen naked people before. But this wasn’t just nudity; it was pure sexual expression, displayed in brutal honesty. And what was worse was that it intrigued me; I wanted to watch each of them, to observe their passionate displays, to see the ways they expressed themselves with their bodies. Owen turned towards me.

“Is it too much for you?” he asked. I shook my head, though I knew the redness in my cheeks betrayed me. I hoped he thought it was from the color on the walls reflecting on my pale skin. He smiled as if pleased with my response. “There’s a medical room in the back with a working sink, shower, and gurney. Standing cage in the corner.” He gestured to the side where the naked man from earlier was barking at a woman dressed in a petticoat and bra. She shook a feather duster at him, as if to shoo him away. “Dog kennel, a dancing pole, an altar, spanking benches, more beds, some couches for watching.” The place seemed endless, much larger than it looked from where we were standing, and even bigger from the outside. A rabbit hole, indeed. “We’re adding a glory hole to the locker room next month.”

“Are there people who actually want to do that?” I asked.

Owen laughed. “People will surprise you,” he said. “Human desire doesn’t stop with mouths, Riley. I simply provide a space for those that are willing to fulfill their deepest, darkest fantasies.” He surveyed the room quickly, then turned back to me. “There are rules, of course, but we hardly need to enforce the penalties.” He gestured to the stairs. “Would you like to see the library?”

“There’s a library too?”

He grinned. “It’s my private loft, but yes.” He offered his arm, and I noticed the thickness of his biceps. After a brief moment of hesitation, I took it. Taking his arm isn’t a show of meekness, I told myself, I’m being polite. Courteous. Respectful.

We walked up two flights of stairs and found an oak door with a metal knocker of a lion. It was beautiful; it looked like it belonged to a foreign country, somewhere noble. Owen unlocked the door. He held it open, waiting for me.

Each wall was covered in books—some sections with dulled spines, as if first editions, and others with brightly colored modern covers. A vintage globe was in one corner with a tufted chaise lounge. The farthest wall had a large window, and as I walked closer, I saw there were steps leading down to it, a velvet sofa in front of it. The entire dungeon floor was visible from that window, but I hadn’t noticed any window when we were downstairs. Next to it was a gargoyle; I recognized it from the Notre Dame.

“How do you have this?” I asked. It was an extremely famous piece, often found in photographs of the cathedral. It had to be a replica, but the texture and weathering alone were magnificent. If it was a replica, it was one hell of a copy. I lifted my hand to touch it, but stopped mid-air.

“Go ahead,” he said.

I traced my fingertip along the long arching neck, the weathered bumps of the spine.

“Is it a replica?” I asked quietly.

“It’s real,” he said. A small gasp escaped from my lips. How the hell did he have it? “It was gifted to me,” he said, reading my mind.

I ran my hand along the horns that reached up, its eyes gazing down, watching, judging, protecting those below it. I wondered whether Owen thought of it as a way to ward off evil spirits, or if it was the incarnation of a damned soul. Either way, it was a fitting piece for his club.

“That’s a very thoughtful friend,” I said.

I stood by the statue, watching the dungeon floor with it. A woman in a red thong was standing below us, her hands tied behind a pole. She was blindfolded. A man paced around her, feeling her ass, grabbing her breasts, getting closer to her with each circle. I could see the woman’s chest rise and fall with each deep breath she took; I wondered if she was bracing herself for something worse. As I watched his hand graze her neck, I realized I was holding my breath.

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