Chapter Eighteen: Juliet
I knocked on Fort’s door at eight o’clock, and felt my usual jolt of attraction when he opened it.
“How many pairs of those socks do you own?” he asked, raking me from head to toe.
“This is the last pair you haven’t seen,” I said, doing a shimmy in my pale blue sheath dress. My socks were blue with silver bows. “I’ll have to start shopping for some more.”
“Mmm. Maybe I’ll shop for some too.” He pulled me into his apartment and planted a kiss on my lips. The lights were brighter than usual, or maybe it was darker outside. When he released me, his arm lingered on my back. “This is the time I usually ply you with alcohol, but I cooked food this time.”
“Yay, dinner.”
“It’s nothing special. Come sit down.”
He led me to his dining room, a formal set up with padded, upholstered chairs, a glittering chandelier, and, of course, a huge window-wall looking out on the world’s most spectacular view. There was a simple salad on the large, rectangular table, and a platter of baked fish in lemon sauce and capers. My mouth watered from the smell. He went to the kitchen and returned with a plate of roasted asparagus that looked magical.
“These are all my favorite foods,” I said. “How did you know?”
“It’s all about the asparagus. Fish and capers are a given.”
“The Mediterranean diet.” I slid into the chair he held out for me. It felt cushy and soft, at odds with his penthouse’s color scheme of bronze and gray. “How much does all this cost?” I murmured.
“What do you mean?” he asked, pouring me a glass of water from a crystal pitcher.
“Sorry. I’m being rude. It’s just…the penthouse, the furnishings, the view…” He didn’t answer as he sat beside me at the head of the table. “I mean, I live in a refurbished shipping container.”
“Very hip of you.”
I put my napkin in my lap as Fort prepared a plate for me. It all felt very date-y and romantic, but I knew it wasn’t a date. There was a paper on the other side of him. I couldn’t read it, but I could see that it contained paragraphs and lists. “So, tell me about The Gallery,” I said. “Please. I’m so curious that I’ve been making up crazy ideas in my head.”
“The Gallery isn’t crazy or dangerous.” He paused as I moaned over my first bite of fish. “Enjoying that?”
“God. Yes. Go on.” I took a sip of water and ate some of the vegetables, seasoned perfectly with olive oil and salt. My plate was half gone before he even started talking.
“So, the first thing you have to understand about The Gallery is that it’s a very classy place. It’s not some hole-in-the-wall sex dive with cum-stained windows and sticky floors.”
I was glad to hear that. Although I never knew there were sex clubs with cum-stained windows and sticky floors. Disgusting. “So, you’re saying it’s well maintained?”
“Yes, and everyone watches out for everyone else, so the rules are always followed.”
“Safety rules?”
He paused a moment. “Yes, safety rules. Although people do things at The Gallery that probably wouldn’t be allowed in a lot of BDSM clubs.” He touched my hand when I stopped chewing. “I’m describing this badly. Nothing illegal happens there. No underage porn. No animals. No drugs. It’s a self-policing community in a beautiful setting. It’s at the top of the Bridgeport building, in a refurbished clock tower. I guarantee you’ve never seen anything like it.”
“There’s a view?”
“No, but there’s a giant clock. It doesn’t work anymore.” He grimaced. “Yes, it kills me, but I haven’t been able to find the parts to fix it, and people who are there aren’t watching the time. It’s a very timeless place.”
“It sounds amazing. Do you have pictures?”
“No pictures allowed. Cameras and phones are checked at the door.” I watched as he took a bite of fish. “Privacy and discretion are taken seriously there, so…” He waved his fork at me. “Nothing I’m telling you can be told to anyone else. You’ve been let in on the secret, now you have to keep it. Do you understand?”
His voice made me squirm on my still-sore ass cheeks. “Yes, Sir.” I picked at one of the silver bows on my knee. “I have a question, though. If it’s so private and secret, how does anybody find it? How did you learn about it?”
“Through Devin. Well, through Devin’s friend, Milo. He was one of the early members, and had a lot of input in the design. Ever heard of Fierro violins?”
I smashed a caper and swirled it in the lemon sauce. “You and your wealthy social circle.” Everyone had heard of Fierro violins. They were the next best thing to a Stradivarius, with a similar cost. “I thought Fierro violins came from Italy?”
“They do, and Milo’s family is ten times richer than mine,” said Fort with a shrug. “But he spends a lot of time in New York, and he’s a pretty cool guy.”
“A sadist?”
He took his last bite of fish and put down his fork. “Every man at The Gallery is a sadist, Juliet. And every woman goes there to submit to a power greater than herself.”
“Do you and your friends have a financial stake in this club?”
“Somewhat. The membership fees are pretty expensive. I also have a psychological stake in the club, because I know my needs will be met there. All kinks and urges are accepted. There are no limits, no safe words, no societal restrictions. Here’s the thing about The Gallery.” He pushed his plate away and leaned closer to me. I stopped chewing and swallowed. “It’s a place where you leave the real you at the door.”
“The real me?” I swallowed again, harder this time. “Like…Juliet?”
“Yes. Juliet is left at the door. Fort is left at the door. Inside The Gallery, you belong to your Dominant and every other Dominant currently in that space. And when it’s over…” He watched me, pursing his lips. “When it’s over, you walk away and go back to real life.”
“Wait.” I studied him, trying to read his expression. “Go back to what you just said. You belong to your Dominant and every other Dominant…?”
“Yes. Like a painting in a gallery. Everyone can look at you and admire you. Everyone can interact with you. You’re there for the visitors to enjoy.”
There for the visitors to enjoy. I tried to wrap my head around this statement. “So when women are there, they’re like…group property? Anyone can sleep with them?”
“Sex isn’t really the focus. I told you that before. It’s not about sex. It’s about power. It’s about owning and partaking in all the beautiful things.”
“The beautiful women, you mean.”
“The beautiful submissives,” he countered. “Who are there of their own free will, because consensually non-consensual dominance and submission is their kink.”
“Consensually non-consensual dominance and submission?” That was a mouthful.
“We talked about this before. You consent to give up consent for the duration of your interactions.” A touch of impatience crept into his voice. “Are you shocked?”
“I don’t know.” My mind was racing over his words. “I mean, I know you and I trust you, but I won’t know any of the other people there. At least, I hope I won’t. I feel okay doing scenes with you without a safe word, but—”
“There won’t be anyone there you can’t trust.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because I’m telling you that, and you trust me, yes?”
I stared down at the mess I’d made of my plate. “I trust you. But…” But that’s because I’m attracted to you. I’m turned on by you. I let you hurt me because you get me hot. “What if I don’t want to do a scene with someone else, and they want to do a scene with me?”
He didn’t answer for long moment, just looked at me with his deep hazel eyes. His dark brows registered subtle tension, but not as much tension as I felt inside. “It’s not a love thing,” he finally answered. “It’s not a romantic date, to go to The Gallery. It’s a phy
sical thing. If you’re turned on by sadism and dominance, every man there will know how to tap into that desire. Every man there will be able to excite you.”
“So you just…what? Take me to The Gallery and offer me to all your friends?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Are you getting upset, Sparkles?”
“No, I’m trying to understand how it works. Do you put all the submissives up on auction blocks? Stand them along the wall until they’re chosen?”