IN THE OUTSKIRTS of the city, a young woman sagged her shoulders in disappointment as she made her way out of a club.
No pedestrians were in sight this late at night, and so she snuggled into her jacket and began walking, hoping she’d walk far enough to catch a cab back to the city.
She rolled her eyes at her ignorance.
These streets were notorious for sexual encounters...consensual or not. No one knew of her whereabouts. If heaven forbid, she got murdered, no one would know until the following day when she didn’t show up to work. Even then, her colleagues might think she went on vacation or took a sick day. It could be weeks before the police found her deteriorating corpse.
The brunette quickened her pace.
She was smarter than this, but desperation had made her do the dumbest thing. An enticement for total submission had brought her to a secluded event she ached to be more but wasn’t—much like her sex life.
“Not your type of club?” an unfamiliar voice asked from behind her.
The brunette cautiously turned her head toward the sound. She cleared her throat, finding the right words to deem herself worthy enough to speak to the woman before her.
She exemplified a dominatrix. The latex jumpsuit she wore hoisted her breasts in a way that made them look fake. Her blonde hair was raised in a long ponytail and the winged eyeliner atop the bed of her lids complimented her ruby lips.
The submissive that harbored within the brunette wished to bow to her feet and kiss her six-inch heels.
For years she’d craved domination and wanted to know what it felt like to be powerless, gagged, and told how to act. She’d waited so long for this moment, she didn’t care if the dominant was male or female.
She couldn’t help the dismay in her voice as she said, “No, not really.”
The bottom of the domme’s chin kissed the arch of her breasts as she examined the brunette as a critic does a fine piece of art—appreciative, yet dubious.
The brunette felt small under such scrutiny, which made her insides swell with ardent need. If the woman told her to strip naked, she’d do it willingly. She silently begged her to.
“What do you mean?” the dominatrix asked, moving a step toward her.
“I thought this was going to be different. That’s all.” She was vague in her response.
“Different?” the blonde asked, tasting the word on her tongue. “How so?”
The brunette answered with utmost honesty, “Everyone here seems to be playing a character. I thought the scenes would be real, feel real. I thought the masters would know what I wanted without me having to tell them. I also wish the men weren’t my father’s age.”
The woman nodded slightly as if agreeing with everything she’d said. She stepped forward but backed away all in the same motion as if unsure of what do to or what to say. With a shake of her head, she gave in. “Do you enjoy Greek mythology?”
The brunette wasn’t taken aback by the sudden change in conversation. At this point, she’d answer anything, do anything, the woman told her to do. “I read a few for a class in college. Why—”
“Who lured sailors to shipwreck with their songs?”
“Sirens.” She stopped answering when the blonde walked away. “Hey, you dropped something!” she shouted as a piece of paper slipped past her jumpsuit.
124 Orchard St. NYC, the card read.