Page 12 of Beneath the Surface

“What do you mean?” She looked up at him, her brow furrowing.

Brad stopped, his gaze softening as he looked down at her, something almost protective flashing in his eyes. “What you’re seeing here isn’t true Dominance and submission. This is chaos disguised as control. Real D/s is about trust, boundaries, respect. Here, it’s all twisted into something cheap and dangerous.”

Isobel’s heart pounded as his words sank in. This was a world she’d glimpsed only in fantasies, in books and articles. But standing here, wrapped in the decadence of Hot Shots, she felt those ideas—consent, trust, mutual respect—had been abandoned at the door.

Her mind reeled, recalling the absence of safeguards. No one had asked for consent forms or checked medical histories at the door. The signs of neglect were everywhere—intoxicated participants, careless acts, a blatant disregard for safety. No staffwatching over participants. It was a world devoid of the checks and balances she’d read about, and its glossy exterior only made the truth more disturbing.

Brad’s expression tightened. “This is where your client’s mother’s boyfriend comes. This is what he’s pulled her into. You needed to see it for what it is, for what it could mean for them.”

A chill ran down her spine. The images she’d glimpsed here seemed to shift from exotic to unsettling. The laughter in the rooms sounded sharper; the cries took on a note of desperation. It was a masquerade, she realized—a parade of pleasure that disguised something darker, something that held a dangerous allure for those who didn’t understand the real foundations of the lifestyle.

“Do you think she knows?” Isobel asked, her voice faint as they continued walking past room after room. “Do you think she understands what this is?”

Brad’s eyes darkened. “No. And that’s the danger. Someone new to this world might see this as normal, might believe this is how things are supposed to be. That’s why I wanted you to see it—so you understand the risks she’s facing.”

Isobel shivered, gripping his arm tighter. “I didn’t know it could be like this,” she admitted, the words barely audible. “I thought… I thought it would be more… respectful. I thought it was supposed to be about connection.”

They entered another hallway, this one narrower, the shadows stretching like claws across the cracked walls. The doors here were different—heavier, with scuffed metal plates and reinforced locks. One stood ajar, and before Brad could guide her away, her eyes flicked inside.

A woman was strapped to a table under a single flickering bulb, her arms splayed and bound with leather straps that bit into her wrists. Her makeup streaked down her face, her mascara smudged by tears that glistened under the harsh light.

A man loomed over her, his bare chest smeared with sweat, a belt coiled tightly in his fist. He barked something at her—a command, a question—but her lips barely moved. When she didn’t respond quickly enough, the belt lashed down with a sound like a gunshot. She flinched, her body jerking against the restraints, but her eyes remained vacant, detached, as if she’d retreated somewhere deep within herself.

Isobel’s breath caught in her throat. The man laughed, a sharp, jagged sound that sliced through the air. In the corner of the room, another man stood watching, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his expression bored. He made no move to intervene.

Brad tugged her away, his face a mask of tension, but the images seared into her brain. She wanted to ask him to stop, to leave, but they pressed on, the hallway closing in around her. She felt the walls breathing, the space alive with a sinister energy.

The next door swung open suddenly, and a figure stumbled out—a young man, shirtless, his chest slick with blood from shallow scratches that crisscrossed his torso. His pupils were blown wide, his face slack, and he swayed as though he could barely stand.

Behind him, the room was a nightmare. The floor was covered in a sheen of spilled drinks and bodily fluids, a mattress shoved against the wall stained with things Isobel didn’t want to identify. Two women remained inside, one slumped against the mattress, her head lolling to the side, unconscious or worse. The other was on her knees, trembling as a man loomed over her, his hands tangled in her hair. He barked a command, jerking her forward, and she sobbed but complied. The sound of her gagging followed Isobel as Brad pulled her away.

She was trembling now, her legs weak, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “What the hell is this place?” she whispered, hervoice barely audible over the muffled symphony of misery that seemed to emanate from every wall.

Brad’s face was grim as they stopped at the farthest door. “It’s not a club. It’s a hunting ground. A place where people come to lose themselves—and take others down with them.”

The final door swung open just as they approached, and the sight inside made Isobel’s stomach twist. A woman was on her knees, her arms chained to a pole in the center of the room. Her body was marked with bruises, her lip split and bleeding. A group of men surrounded her, their faces obscured by masks but their intentions horrifyingly clear. One held a camera, its blinking red light capturing every degrading moment. Another circled her like a predator, whispering things Isobel couldn’t hear but could imagine. The woman sobbed, shaking her head, her voice hoarse from screaming.

“No more,” she cried. “Please… no more.”

But her pleas fell on deaf ears. One of the men stepped forward, pulling at his belt with a chilling nonchalance, as if her pain were nothing more than entertainment. The others laughed, jeering, their voices merging into an inhuman drone.

Isobel turned away, bile rising in her throat, but she couldn’t unsee it, couldn’t unhear it. Her legs buckled, and Brad caught her, his grip firm. “We’re leaving,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “Now.”

As they made their way back to the main floor, the air grew colder, what she’d seen pressing down on her like a physical force. The laughter and music above felt hollow now, a façade masking the grotesque truths buried below. She felt dirty, her skin crawling, her heart pounding with rage and helplessness.

“Brad,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone needs to stop this.”

He didn’t respond, his expression dark, his steps purposeful as he led her out into the night. The door to Hot Shots closedbehind them, but the horrors inside stayed with her, clawing at her mind with merciless persistence.

Still reeling, she looked up at him. “Thank you for being here,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I don’t think I could have done this alone.”

Brad’s hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to do this alone, Isobel. Ever.”

The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her, calming her racing thoughts. She knew Brad wasn’t just talking about tonight. His words were a promise, one he seemed willing to keep as long as she let him.

“What do we do now?” she asked, feeling the night settle over her.

He glanced back at the closed door, his expression hardening. “Now, we get out of here. And tomorrow, we figure out how to help your client—and anyone else drawn into this place—see the truth.”

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