Page 7 of Black Sheep

When Black Widow, my now-manageress at the Punishment Club, suggested we open the club for six months, tops, to alleviate our boredom, it was done on a drunken shrug-fuck-it-why-not basis. Six months turned to one year, then another. Now, the club is bringing in nearly as much monthly income as XYNYC with almost five hundred applicants creaming themselves to become members.

Unlike most underground clubs, there’s nothing dungeon-like about the Punishment Club. It soars into Hell’s Kitchen’s skyline like the fat fuck you it is, right down to the giant red double doors gracing the Victorian front entrance. Others cautioned a little discretion when it came to advertising the club’s presence. I countered with a fuck no, although I conceded to a less glamorous side entrance for the politicians and priests who didn’t want their shibari-while-wearing-baby-clothes addictions whispered about or publicly witnessed.

I may be insane but I’m not stupid. Not when it comes to money anyway. My acumen where money is concerned is what turned the two-hundred-and-fifty thousand-dollar online gambling windfall when I was nineteen into billions at age twenty-nine.

I enter the code in the wall panel, and the double doors spring open. An elaborate, tiered chandelier lights the marble-floored foyer. There are no whips or instruments of torture announcing the true function of this place. In fact, as I walk down a short hallway and enter the main reception area of the club, the strains of Evanescence-type music and the sound of clinking glasses would fool anyone into thinking this is an ordinary club. To be fair, at this time of the morning, most patrons are secreted away in their various rooms so the usual hints are well hidden.

No so well hidden is the woman hanging right above my head as I enter the heart of the ground-floor club area, completely naked and bound with chains, her long red hair hanging free, and her legs splayed open. Her eyes are fixed at a specific point on the ceiling, where a phallic-shaped bowl tilts hot, blood-red wax straight between her legs. With each hit, she flinches, and tears spill freely down her temples.

Although there are about two dozen members milling around, she’s the only one receiving her punishment in plain sight. I side step the silver wax-collecting receptacle on the floor beneath her and make my way to the hostess’s area.

The girl behind the desk looks up, her eyes widening a touch when she sees me. As I hand her my coat, I see her checking me out but she, unlike Cici, is careful not to engage me in conversation. She hands over the dark purple key card that will grant me admittance into the sanctum sanctorum six floors above.

“The Black Widow?” I ask. My voice is gruff, almost hoarse, but she hears me.

“On the third floor with a client,” she responds, eyes of indeterminate color meeting mine for a second before she lowers her gaze. “She’s almost done. Shall I let her know you’re here?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She nods and turns away. A waitress comes toward me with a tumbler of Scotch on a silver platter. I take it and knock it back then make my way to the private elevator. With a swipe of my card, the doors open.

Seconds later, I’m on the sixth floor. Black carpeting and expensively paneled walls muffle my footsteps as I head to the room at the end of the long hallway. On both sides, steel doors and soundproof walls seal away men and women giving in to their basest proclivities in the name of punishment. Some are as innocuous as a “teacher” forcing a “student” to read dense poetry. Others are…not.

The Black Widow is in charge of making sure we don’t step outside the law or breach safety rules, but as owner of the establishment, I’m privy to all members and potential members’ punishment requests should I wish to see them. I’ve seen a few. Enough to know, were greed and money my priorities, my bank balance would be ten times fatter than it currently is since I’ve declined more members’ applications than I’ve accepted.

Nothing much in this life makes my stomach turn. Not anymore. But even I know to leave some things alone.

Besides, with my years-long plan to bring down the Rutherford kingdom now approaching its crescendo, I don’t need further distractions. Keeping people like Vardan Petrosyan on my side is more than enough work.

Standing in front of the cold steel door that is the entrance to my personal hell party, I hesitate. Would I be better off taking the safer route of getting hammered and sleeping it off?

No.

I’ll only wake up in a worse state. A state where the temptation to slide behind the wheel of my McLaren Spider and hunt down my father may get too big to contain. It’s happened before. I’ve stood over his bed and stared down at him. In the inky, soulless black of that night, homicide was as soft and seductive and deadly as a kiss. To this day, I have no recollection of how I walked away. What triggered me to step back? I don’t want to know.

All I know is that the time to be back in that room isn’t here yet. It’s coming. But until then…

I reach out and touch the door. The cold from the steel seeps into my pores, chills enough to ground me in the present. With my left hand, I swipe the card again. I push the door open, take a breath, and step into the room.

“Lights.”

Sensors heed my voice, and the room is bathed in soft light. I prowl forward into the windowless, drapeless room, my attention on the single piece of furniture in the space. Behind me, the door swings closed on a soft whispered click, sealing me into my prison. Three steps down and I’m in the dead center of the circular, sunken room.

Another few steps and I stand before it.

The chair is wide and low and squat, with four iron claws bolted into the floor. It could’ve afforded comfort if I’d allowed it. Instead it is stark, the cast iron back high and rigid enough to make my spine protest even before I’ve taken a seat. The broad metal armrests are also sturdy to accommodate the hours I intend to spend in the chair. Beside the front legs, two metal cuffs lie open, attached to titanium chains.

I stare dispassionately at them, wishing the sight of my bindings brought even a little bit of sunlight, a promise of redemption somewhere in my future. But even now, even in this place, all that echoes within me is…anticipation.

How can I yearn for the very punishment that should shame me?

How can I—

My thoughts halt as the door opens behind me. The click of heels pushes me into action. I toe off my shoes, followed by my socks. My shirt comes off next, then my belt. Wearing only my pants, I settle in the chair, my back to the icy embrace of the iron throne.

I feel her scrutiny long before I lift my gaze to her.

The Black Widow. Tall, willowy with jet-black hair that I suspect is cultivated for maximum effect, she’s stunning the way an ice sculpture is stunning. Sharp green eyes peer at me from beneath long, mascaraed eyelashes. But tonight, her normal dark lipstick is absent, as is her all-black attire. Instead she’s wearing a gray matron’s uniform, complete with white cap, white apron and thick gray pumps.

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