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The room was a void, painted black and absent of warmth. Black walls, black floor, black drapes swallowed any hint of softness. The only light seeped from a single overhead fixture; flickering sterile light completely engulfed by dark leathers and velvet.
Beneath it, the last client of the night waited.
His breath escaped in a measured mimicry of calm, but his bare shoulders tensed as he fought back shivers. He knew what he had paid for. He knew
who
he had paid for.
Staccato taps against polished concrete echoed through the stillness. It was unhurried, yet his breath hitched. Madame de Sade did not rush for anyone.
She stopped before him and he looked up, though his vision was obscured with a thick mask of leather that was already sticking to his skin. He didn’t need his vision to know that she was looking down at him, cowering on his knees as though he was nothing more than a fleck of dirt tarnishing her space.
When she finally spoke, her voice was like scalpel against skin.
“You begged for this. Remember that.”
She circled him now, predator-slow. He resisted the urge to move his head in an effort to follow the sound of sharp nails beneath gloves, tapping against a leather clad palm.
“You’re pathetic. Kneeling for me already. Grovelling? I’ve yet to lift a finger, and yet you tremble like some weak, wretched thing.”
She stepped up behind him, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from his Mistress, but never close enough to touch. A pause. Then–
Crack.
A single strike against his right shoulder blade. The leather cat o' nine never broke skin, but the bite of the tails stung. A sharp intake of breath followed, but he didn’t cry out.
“Good.” she mused. “You’re learning.”
She leaned in, and her breath tickled at the shell of his ear. But it wasn’t a mercy. It was calculated cruelty.
“But let’s see how long that lasts.”
Another strike. And another. Each one perfectly placed on untarnished flesh and methodical in timing, leaving heated red welts where she struck. She did not rush. Pain was a meal best savored. He was hungry, yet his mistress was in no hurry to indulge.
When the audible sound of a cry finally escaped through teeth-clamped lips, she stopped. He took deep, shuddering breaths as she moved to stand in front of him, no doubt looking down her nose at the pathetic excuse of a man.
“Ruined. Useless. Nothing but a breathing canvas for my amusement.”
Gloved fingers found his chin and his head was jerked sharply upward, making him gasp. The touch was not gentle – it never was. It was harsh, and never failed to remind him that even the most meager of contact was hers to give and take on her whim.
“Tell me, worm,” she growled. “Do you think you deserve mercy?”
A long pause. A shuddering exhale.
“Wrong answer.”
The next strike against bare thighs landed before he had time to brace, dragging a raw gasp from his lips. His bruising knees ached against the hard concrete, but he fought to compose himself to please his Madame.
“Let’s see how much more of you I can break before you start answering me correctly.”
Looking down, Wednesday sighed at the sight of drying saliva coating the tip of her boot. She hated the way it dulled the leather. She’d get Thing to buff it for her later.
As soon as the pitiful specimen had exited the chamber, she moved to the discrete door in the opposite wall, pressing on a particular motif in the decor to make it slide silently open. She left it open, a signal to Bianca that it was vacant and in need of restitution.
Making her way down the narrow passageway, she could hear the muffled sounds of other clients receiving exactly what they needed behind the various doors. Although the front of house corridors were fully soundproofed, it behooved the staff to be able to identify if a room was occupied before stepping in. It also was a form of protection. Despite a strict vetting procedure, the business came with an inherent risk for anyone that willingly submitted themselves to the mercy of a relative stranger. Wednesday would not and could not leave anything to chance where the safety of her colleagues and patrons was concerned.
The office was a welcome respite, the dark interior still sumptuous in line with the rest of the establishment, but with a clean aesthetic that matched her concise approach to all things. With no more Scenes scheduled, she moved to the dark walnut liquor cabinet, retrieving a tall bottle from the softly backlit rack. Angel’s Envy - appropriate - very few angels would have the acumen to put on the performance she enacted on a nightly basis, whatever their darkest desires may be.
Savouring the warm, spicy aroma of the pour, she moved to the desk, removing a slim laptop from the fingerprint-secured drawer of the desk. As the machine was booting up, a sharp knock was followed by the appearance of Bianca Barclay. Bianca was the stern face of Nevermore, the no-nonsense siren greeted each customer and dealt with anyone that forgot the very enforceable rules.
Wednesday operated a zero tolerance, one strike policy, both with staff and patrons. Having a siren as her enforcer was an effective way to de-escalate unpleasant situations. Bianca was more than just her voice though. She was stunningly beautiful and ruthlessly efficient. She exuded an air of capability and calm that reassured flighty new clients, and a level of consistency and personability that kept them coming back.
At one time, Wednesday had thought that they were well matched for a relationship, but their strong personalities clashed too often, neither willing to yield and find the compromise required for such a thing to work. Now they worked well together, each holding the other in a position of high esteem. Wednesday might even hesitantly acknowledge that Bianca was as close a thing as she had to a best friend; if she were to be put upon a knife’s edge.
“Would it kill you to offer some actual aftercare?” Bianca sniped as she entered. “Beyond the “there, there” routine?” She sauntered over in her navy and charcoal pinstripe tailored suit, the picture of suave professionalism. Perching on the edge of the desk, she boldly pried the glass from Wednesday's hand, taking a long sip.
“If the worm didn’t like it, he wouldn’t keep coming back.” Wednesday turned to pour herself another glass.
“You do know he’s a paying customer with an actual name?”
“Of course. I did his background check. Believe me, “the worm” is much kinder than some of the things I could be calling him.”
Bianca rolled her eyes. “You're really something.”
“Thank you.”
“That
wasn’t
a compliment.” She took another sip of the fine liquor. “So, just checking in to remind you that Larissa is stopping by tomorrow. She has to go over some paperwork with you. I think it’s for the restraining order.”
“I was just about to review it.” Wednesday gestured to the awakening laptop.
“Great. And the other thing is that the new rigger is starting tomorrow.”
“New rigger? Why was I not consulted on a new hire?”
“Maybe because you’ve rejected every single one that Larissa has sent you without even looking at the applications.”
To anyone else, Wednesday would have seemed nonchalant, but Bianca could see the spark of irritation, and maybe a little hesitation in her countenance as she took a long pull of her drink. The emotions were quickly shuttered as she met Bianca’s stare. “Well, I look forward to seeing what pitiful specimen she has managed to unearth behind my back...”
Enid was buzzing. It might have been the super sweet, extra large, caramel almond milk latte, but she was sure it was from genuine excitement. She couldn’t believe the day was finally here. She’d slept in her van for the sixth night in a row last night, showering in a local pay-as-you-go gym and was craving meaningful human interaction after schlepping from coast to coast over the week.
Enid climbed out of the van in front of a huge Gothic townhouse. It stood out like a sore thumb in the quiet neighbourhood. Turrets adorned each corner of the structure, and it was painted dark grey with black trim. It reminded her of the quirky properties of Portland; indeed it could have been picked up from Oregon and dropped here by a tornado. She almost checked for red slippers sticking out next to the front door.
She bounded along a well maintained gravel path around the property to a plain door at the rear of the property, as requested in her joining instructions, before chirpily pressing the buzzer.
“Hello?” came a tinny voice.
“Uh, hi! I’m Enid Sinclair? I’m starting here today?”
“Ok. I’ll come get you.”
Enid looked around. The neighbourhood was nice - far enough out of Jericho that it didn’t feel dicey, but close enough to still have good public transport. There were trees shading the sidewalk from the warm early summer heat, and the distant hush of traffic wasn’t displeasing.
The door behind clicked open, and she found herself face to face with the dark-skinned siren who had interviewed her with the owner.
“Bianca, right? Hi! It’s great to meet you! Thank you so much for this opportunity! I’m so excited to be here!”
Bianca blinked away the overwhelming deluge of words before a wry smirk pulled at her lips as she anticipated this vibrant creature meeting their resident mistress of pain.
“Nice to meet you,” she responded, taking the hand that had been thrust towards her in a firm shake. “We’re excited to have such a big name join the club. I have to say, the art you put up on Insta is awe-inspiring. We’re lucky to have such a talent join us.”
Enid flushed, her face pinking all the way to the tips of her ears. “Um, thanks,” she mumbled, shuffling her converse on the sidewalk.
Bianca roared out a laugh. “Oh my god, you’re so confident on your feeds, I assumed you would brush off compliments like lint! Come on, I’ll show you around the place.”
Bianca led Enid down a set of stairs and began the tour. It was cleverly laid out, with the playrooms all underground, in the centre of a large basement complex. Service corridors ran around the periphery, keeping the patrons and staff separated until they met in the playrooms. The staff were clearly well cared for, and had access to clean and spacious changing areas with lockable storage, comfortable break areas with free healthy and energy restoring snacks and drinks, and specially allocated spaces for physical and mental wellbeing. There was even a small gym.
The public areas consisted of the playrooms, which catered to all tastes with the highest quality furniture and equipment, all tastefully furnished in a way that invited the surrender of deepest and darkest desires. The patrons accessed the playrooms through the Gothic townhouse that sat above the complex. The front hall of the house was a lobby that had a wrap-around staircase up to the second floor. Below the stairs, another flight led down to the playrooms.
The house itself was a marvel. It was larger than the average townhouse, and stood three stories high. The ground floor housed the lobby and suite of elegantly furnished reception rooms, perfect for hosting soirées. Subtle restraint points could also be spotted by the keen eyed, alluding to the sordid nature of such evenings.
Heading up the stairs, Enid found a good portion of the interior had been hollowed out over the top two floors to create an enormous, sumptuous ballroom, complete with balconies which led to turrets on each corner of the property. Bianca assured her about the integrity of structures, pointing to well fitted pulleys on the underside of the balconies that had Enid immediately visualising artworks of bound submissives, beautifully restrained for the viewing pleasure of a hungry crowd.
Finally, Bianca led her to an ornate mahogany door in the house proper, situated at the rear of the property. She knocked once before pushing it open. Behind a large desk sat Larissa Weems, the owner whom Enid had met during her virtual interview. The platinum blonde rose to meet her newest employee - and rose and rose. She was easily the tallest person Enid had ever encountered. A tight, polite smile adorned her cherry-red lips.
“Ah, Enid. So lovely to finally meet you,” she stated warmly. “I hope Bianca has given you the welcome tour?”
“Oh, yeah! It's amazing! I can't wait to try out some of those set ups! Thank you for this opportunity, Ms Weems!” Enid stepped forward to take her offered hand and shake it enthusiastically.
“Please, call me Larissa. I'll be honest, I was hoping to tap into your other skill of producing engaging social content just as much as your impressive rope work. We're hoping to expand and social media is a good way to build a client base quickly. So really, I should be thanking you for this opportunity.” She arched her brow, a sincere smile fixed firmly in place. “Now, let's see about your contracts and schedule.”
The next few days passed in a blur for Enid. She'd quickly made friends with a number of the other staff. Bianca was easy to get on with, but a consummate professional during business hours, only letting her guard down once the last client was through the door.
She quickly formed a bond with one of the switches, Yoko, who had come to find her and told her to “show her the ropes”, laughing outrageously at her own humour. Enid had done just that, quickly showing the interested vampire some easy ways to tie an elegant harness. By the end of the session she'd gotten herself a new roommate, Yoko horrified to learn of her living in a van on the street and offering the vacant bedroom in her apartment.
She made easy friends with the other staff too, everyone from the cleaners to the doms and subs of all genders. There was only one area of tension; Madame de Sade, or Wednesday Addams to give her real name. Enid had briefly met Addams on that first day. During the tour Bianca had briefly knocked on an unremarkable door pushing it open without waiting for a response.
“Wednesday. This is Enid. She's the new rigger. Enid, this is Wednesday Addams, or Madame de Sade when she's performing. Wednesday is the manager and Larissa's woman on the ground, as well as our resident torturer. If you hear someone screaming bloody murder, she's likely the cause.”
Enid stepped into the room as Bianca made the introduction. A petite, beautiful latina sat behind a modern looking desk, watching her appraisingly. As Bianca finished the thorough introduction - which struck Enid as odd given this person was apparently her boss - she bounded forward, offering her hand to shake greeting the woman effusively.
“Hi! Enid Sinclair! I'm really excited to work with you!”
Wednesday looked down at her hand before meeting her gaze again, ignoring the offered gesture.
“Enid. Forgive me, I'm rather busy with something at the minute. Do let me know if you need anything that Bianca can't handle.”
“Oh. Um. OK,” she stuttered, awkwardly withdrawing her hand. “Thanks. It's nice to meet you.” She looked askance at Bianca, who rolled her eyes microscopically before gesturing out of the room.
Once the door shut, the siren turned to Enid. “Sorry about Wednesday. She's not very good at people. Especially new people. Don't take it personally.”
Since then, Enid had been sure to greet Wednesday whenever they crossed paths, but could not seem to engage the smaller woman in any form of conversation. The little domme, usually dressed in a variation of her thigh high platforms, a cosseted bodice and velvet jacket, would respond politely but almost entirely with monosyllabic responses. Passing in the corridor, she would simply incline her head slightly and state, “Enid,” before continuing on her way.
Most notably, at least to Enid's werewolf senses, Wednesday never deviated from her baseline. Whenever she met one of her colleagues after a Scene, she could immediately tell they had been working. She could hear their elevated heartbeats, see the dishevelled appearance and the dilation of their pupils and, most viscerally, could smell - almost taste - their natural reaction to the intensity of sexually driven power exchange; the desire that was the lifeblood of the establishment. It was a heady experience, and seemed to drive Enid's pack sensibilities to overdrive. Nevermore was a den and she, a lone wolf for so long, reveled in being welcomed in.
Wednesday was the exception. She almost felt like an intruder, or maybe like an observer - like a nature documentarian; present but not part of the den. She was there but she wasn't integrated.
Enid knew she had encountered Madame de Sade post Scene. She'd literally bumped into her leaving the pitch black dungeon more than once, but never had she detected any indication of arousal, or even emotion, from the petite mistress.
It drove some base instinct in her wild. She couldn't tell if it was sorrow, at the thought that the woman gained nothing from these exchanges, or if it was a desire to
make
her feel something. To assign her a place within this pack structure. Either way, she determined, she would find a way to elicit a reaction from her beautiful but stoic colleague.