Page 41 of Tame Me Daddy

"Yes," Grant replied. "This is Cherry. Her first time here."

The woman—whose nametag read "Elaine"—stood and extended her hand to me. Her handshake was firm andprofessional. "Welcome to The Sanctuary, Cherry. I'll need to go over a few basics with you before you enter, if you don't mind."

I nodded, and she proceeded to explain the club's fundamental rules with practiced efficiency. Privacy was paramount—no photography, no sharing identifying information about other members outside the club. Consent was inviolable—all interactions required explicit agreement from all parties. Respect was non-negotiable—any form of harassment or pressure would result in immediate removal and membership revocation.

"We're not a sex club," Elaine clarified, her tone matter-of-fact. "While some of our private rooms are available for intimate activities between consenting adults, our main spaces are for social interaction, education, and community building."

She had me sign a confidentiality agreement and a code of conduct, then passed me a temporary membership card. "This gives you access to the main floor and most theme rooms. Some areas require specific membership levels or permissions."

"Thank you," I said, surprised by the professionalism of it all. This was a far cry from the seedy, dangerous image I'd subconsciously associated with kink spaces.

Grant signed us in, then guided me through a second set of doors into the main space of the club. The large room that greeted us resembled an upscale lounge more than anything else. Comfortable seating arrangements created conversation areas throughout the space. Subtle lighting cast a warm glow over everything, neither too bright to be jarring nor too dim to feel secretive.

A well-stocked non-alcoholic bar occupied one wall, while a small stage area suggested the space could be used for presentations or performances. Soft music played at a volume that allowed for conversation without straining to hear.

What struck me most, however, were the people. I observed couples and small groups chatting, laughing, completely at ease. Some wore casual everyday clothes like Grant and me, while others embraced more obvious kink attire—leather, corsets, or specific accessories that I assumed indicated their roles or preferences. Ages ranged from twenties to sixties, with a diversity that surprised me.

No one leered. No one stared. The atmosphere carried none of the predatory edge I'd feared, just a palpable sense of people being their authentic selves in a protected environment.

"What do you think?" Grant asked quietly, his hand finding the small of my back again.

"It's not what I expected," I admitted. "It's so . . . normal."

He chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. "That's what most people say their first time. We're just people, Cherry. People with specific desires and needs, but still just people."

"Grant!" A man's voice called from nearby. A couple in their forties approached, the man with salt-and-pepper hair and the woman with a sleek bob and bright eyes. They both wore ordinary business casual attire that wouldn't have raised eyebrows in any restaurant.

"David, Melissa. Good to see you," Grant replied, shaking the man's hand and accepting a quick hug from the woman. "This is Cherry. Her first visit."

"Welcome," Melissa said warmly. "First time at any club or just this one?"

"Any club," I admitted, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "I'm new to . . . all of this."

David smiled kindly. "We all had a first time. Melissa and I have been coming here for, what, seven years now?"

"Eight," his wife corrected with a fond smile. "Best decision we ever made for our marriage."

As Grant got drawn into a brief discussion with David about some club business matter, Melissa moved closer to me. "It can be overwhelming at first," she said quietly. "But this is a good place. Safe. Most people here lead completely ordinary lives outside these walls."

"Really?" I asked, genuinely curious.

She laughed. "Oh yes. I'm an elementary school principal. David's an accountant. Most people just think we're boring suburbanites." Her eyes twinkled with humor. "And we are—except for this part of ourselves."

Her openness put me at ease in a way nothing else could have. These weren't social outcasts or deviants; they were ordinary people who had simply found a place where they could express parts of themselves that didn't fit into everyday society.

I wondered what my parents would say if they could see this place.

Probably nothing good, I thought with a sigh. Some people just would never understand.

When Grant returned to my side, I felt more relaxed, more curious than nervous now. He offered to show me around, and I agreed eagerly.

As we toured the facility, Grant pointed out various themed rooms available for members. Some focused on traditional BDSM equipment—crosses, benches, and implements displayed with the same care a gym might show its equipment. Others were designed for specific roleplay scenarios, ranging from medical themes to classroom settings.

What impressed me most was the cleanliness and attention to safety evident everywhere. Each room had clear guidelines posted, emergency call buttons, and first aid supplies. Nothing felt dangerous or dirty—just carefully designed spaces for consensual adult activities.

"People can reserve these rooms?" I asked as we passed a particularly elaborate setup.

"Yes. Members with the appropriate level of training and experience can book them for private use." Grant's hand remained at the small of my back, a reassuring presence without being possessive. "Everything here is about informed consent and safety."

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