Page 23 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

One of the habits of this community is to mask. Nearly everyone wears either a full face covering or a decorative eye mask. Some wear blindfolds. Several small stages the size of queen-sized beds rise above the main floor. On each one is a contraption of some sort—a punishment bench, a St. Andrew’s cross, one of those goddamn fucking couches Marianne is so fond of, a milking table, and a submission horse. A few creative swings and slings are stationed around the perimeter.

It’s never dull here.

Most of the action we heard on the stairs is coming from the nearest riser. A woman is cuffed to the submission horse, ass high in the air being alternately spanked by a Dom’s bare hand and stroked with his fingers. The sub has dropped her head and is panting in moans. One of the monitors stalks by and touches her chin. She lifts her head and moans again.

He walks on.

Similar to my club at home, I have an elevated VIP area with the best view. I walk to the booth tucked into a dark corner. A few people notice me. We say hello, but I don’t linger. A bartender meets us at my table, and I ask for more whiskey and two large bottles of water.

Christian’s face is stoic—lined eyes striking as his gaze moves deliberately from stage to stage, not getting hung up on any one thing in particular. And then he asks, “Are you fluent in Italian?”

“No. Not entirely. Still working on it. I hire a translator for important meetings. I speak more than I understand,” I admit.

“Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

“Not for me.”

“You’re right—this is very different than The Penthouse.”

“Do you have a preference?” I ask randomly.

“Do you?”

We look at each other, and I give him half a grin. “No.”

“Just glad it exists?” he asks.

“I suppose.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I like to watch.”

“And when did you realize that?”

“You mean outside of standard porn?” I ask as the whiskey and water arrive.

Christian nods before getting to work unscrewing the top on the bottle. I arrange the glasses for him to pour it.

“Marianne, actually. She connected online with a whole network of kinky people doing kinky things in Manhattan.”

“Is she a fan of watching also?”

“Not just,” I say. “She wanted to learn and do and be part of it.”

“Sorry. I guess that was a pretty personal question.”

“Why stop now?” I ask. All we’ve done since we got to the hotel is ask questions that are too personal.

“Okay,” he says, throwing back his whiskey in one shot. “Were you into it? Are you still?”

“Yes and yes, but not the same way.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you go into details.”

I laugh as his gaze flicks back to the woman on the submission horse. “It might not seem like it, but I consider this place a lot tamer than the club in New York.”

“How’s that?” he asks.

---