Page 29 of Dash

Standing straighter, Dash took a deep breath, as though proving to himself that he still could, despite his continued smoking habit. Tonight had to be the night, if Bowie made it out of bed. He shifted his focus to Clark, and noted the hard expression while the current VP looked over his men, seeming to assess them.

After fifteen minutes, the door closed, and whoever was going to be there, was there. It wasn’t a full table, chairs were empty, but then again, they were a sparse club. Bowie lifted his head and straightened as much as he could in his condition. Removing the mask, he brought the gavel down. What normally would have been a loud smack was barely a light clack.

“It’s no secret I’m dying,” Bowie wheezed. “I don’t have much time, and I can’t lead. I need to pass the gavel.” With a shaky hand, Bowie turned the handle of the actual gavel and extended it to Clark. “I’m nominating Clark to be your next president.”

“Seconded,” came their Sergeant at Arms.

“Now, just wait a goddamn minute,” croaked Jackal, and all the eyes in the room went to him.

“I don’t have time—” Bowie coughed into his hand.

“We voted for this stupid ass patch over,” the older biker growled. “And even though I was against it, I went along with it. You brought in these assholes from Montana and wiped out our good business.”

“The money’s been good,” Mooky countered.

“Real good,” Cajun concurred.

“Ehh,” Jackal waved a hand, dismissing them. “Getting guns for them so they can go to Canada is more dangerous. What we had before was easier and was less risk. They came in here and stole our territory and Bowie fuckin’ let them.”

“Enough,” Bowie boomed. “The patch over was settled,” the president of the Ohio chapter rasped. “Either you get on board with this vote or you get your ass out of my fucking club. Am I clear?”

The glaring stand-off between the president and the old member of his club was silent but spoke fucking volumes.

“I’m nominating Clark to be the next president of Odin’s Fury, Ohio Chapter,” Bowie declared with narrowed eyes locked on Jackal. “All those in favor?”

“Aye.” The Sergeant at Arms was quick to stand behind his president and the votes came quickly down the line. Jackal glared at his leader, voiced a vote in the positive, though clearly his heart was not in it. His son’s vote followed and echoed the lack of conviction.

Dash put the father and son on his list of people to watch before he gave his own vote when it was his turn. With no further debate, all the men of the Ohio chapter present unanimously voted Clark to be their president.

With the president laid up dying of lung cancer, their new VP had stepped up and fixed what was broken. He’d cleaned up their club, both internally and externally. It boggled Dash’s mind how the pair could go against the decision to name Clark president.

Bowie bowed his head, brought the mask back to his face, and took a few hits of oxygen. Even Dash had to look away, out of respect, during this moment of weakness. He snubbed his cigarette out, addiction was a son of a bitch.

The new president slammed the gavel down. “Thank you.” Because of Bowie’s frail condition, Clark didn’t move to take his position at the head of the table, rather he stood behind him, holding the gavel and slapping his hand on the older man’s shoulder. His gaze panned the room, and he took in each of the men. “I’ve been around all of you for some time, and we’ve had some growing pains. I’ve gotten to know some of you, and you’re right in the positions I need you in. I asked Monty, the president of our mother chapter, our national chapter, and he agreed. For now, until we can get our numbers up, our membership up, I’m appointing Dash as our temporary VP.” Clark pointed the gavel at Dash. “He’s the Sergeant at Arms of the mother chapter now, but has accepted to be our acting VP until I can promote from within.”

The men turned in their chairs, and all eyes were on Dash. He didn’t miss the fiery glare from the father and son duo. What the fuck was up with those two? He’d have to ask Clark.

Rolling his shoulders back, he took a deep inhale of his cigarette before pinching it between his fingers and taking it from his mouth. He blew the smoke out of his nose. If Dash ever needed to be a dragon, it was in that moment. Facing down a room full of bikers, he was a mother-fucking dragon, and the acting Vice President of Odin’s Fury Motorcycle Club, Ohio Chapter.

Chapter 15

Dash

The following Saturday

When playing outside of his own space, Dash didn’t take all his toys with him. It was far too much to carry. Deciding what to bring was a test of efficiency. As he walked up to the three-story repurposed factory with the canvas rifle bag slung over his shoulder, he took a mental inventory of what he’d brought. A few floggers, his acrylic cane, nipple clamps, wooden paddle, and his cuffs. He figured the basics would suffice. Anything more than that would be overkill for a first session.

It’d been his mistake with Blue. He’d laid out everything in his eagerness and overwhelmed her. That, and he’d missed the signs that she wasn’t more than just a casual player, someone who sampled the delights, rather than fully indulged. That was his mistake, not hers; one he had no intention of repeating. He never should’ve made it in the first place. He knew better than to introduce advanced toys like the tazapper to someone with whom he hadn’t even negotiated likes and dislikes.

As he ascended the uneven stairs, the loud bass thundered from the third floor to mask the sounds of paddles striking flesh and the cries of submissives. He pushed open the heavy metal door. To his right was a moveable rack for clothing, with jackets hung on it. Directly in front of him was a long table with people checking in arrivals. One checked IDs, one accepted payment, and one reviewed and got informed consent for use of the space. There was a large privacy screen blocking the view of what went on behind them. The actual play space couldn’t be seen from the door. He was impressed with the setup already.

He'd researched the building, specifically the spot they’d used for their monthly play party. It was a dance studio used for ribbon gymnasts, mostly. He wasn’t surprised when he found polished hardwood floors or high ceilings with exposed beams or metal work. Once he’d paid, got his ID checked, and signed his waivers, Dash moved past the privacy screen to take in the space.

Fully open, the wide room had no interior walls. Several St. Andrew’s crosses, two stiff rope webs, an assortment of spanking benches, spread out through the space were massage tables, some in use for various things like fire cupping or candle wax play. Lined up along the walls were folding chairs. Dangling from the high beams in the ceiling were canvas hard points meant for suspension rigging.

It was a well-attended event. Having arrived an hour late due to club business, the party was in full swing when he got there. True to form, the people of the fetish community dressed anywhere from casual, in jeans and t-shirts, to full-on kink wear. There were men and women in tight rubber outfits, or form fitting corsets, or nearly naked. Leather and kilts were donned as well. From what he’d read of the rules, penetration sex acts were the only thing not permitted, but masturbatory acts were approved.

As he scanned the expansive room, a tall man with his hair bound back in a long ponytail whizzed past him, wearing a glowing necklace with the letters “DM” painted on it. Dash nodded in approval when he noticed there were several people about wearing those. Dungeon masters. These people were there to ensure the safety of those playing. He could get used to something like this. This fit right into his idea of safe, sane, and consensual for play spaces.

---