Taunt Me (Rough Love 2)

I left my coat at the door and skirted around the scenes in progress, and shared a smile with one of the dungeon masters, an older gentleman I sometimes saw at Evolution too. There were four balconies upstairs, half-hidden by curtains, where voyeurs could look down on the action. I felt most comfortable there, where I could watch other people suffer and play.

By now, I felt at home with the accoutrements of these BDSM clubs: the rope, the chains, the cuffs, and the intermittent cracks of a whip. It wasn’t very busy tonight, perhaps because of the weather. For once, I had a balcony all to myself, and from that private, elevated space, I watched intense, quiet scenes and fun, raucous scenes, watched duos and trios and quartets of people act out their freaky sides.

There was very little sex. Some heavy petting, some commanded blowjobs. I couldn’t help remembering how W used to shove his cock down my throat. It could hardly have been called “giving him a blowjob” since I hadn’t given anything, only had everything taken from me. My control, my dignity, my ability to breathe. None of the blowjobs here were like that.

I closed my eyes, overtaken by the past. It was so long ago now, but I could still remember the scent of his maleness, his fingers yanking at my hair. The thick, hard, driving flesh… His cock had ruled my life. His force and passion had ruled my life during our frenetic sessions. I still remembered how he used to slap my face and bark orders. I remembered the feel of it, the shock and the sting. Why had I enjoyed having my face slapped? I had no idea, but it got me in the mood every time.

I heard a step behind me, and a creak as someone sat on one of the balcony’s bleacher-like benches. Just one person. A man? The image of W was so strong in my mind, because of the memories and the fantasies, that my hair stood on end. What if it was W sitting behind me, watching me watch the others?

I slid a look over my shoulder, my whole body cycling through hot and cold. Why was I experiencing this prickle, this sense of recognition? I saw dark jeans, the hem of a black tee. It wasn’t W, because the man wasn’t big enough, and W wouldn’t wear jeans and a tee shirt to a club. He’d wear a suit and tie, and cuff links. I screwed up my courage and looked into the interloper’s face.

It wasn’t W.

It was Professor Cantor from my metals lab, looking more predatory than ever.

I turned back around. My face was steaming red. Maybe he hadn’t recognized me. Shit, of course he’d recognized me. He probably recognized me from seeing me here before. All those assessing looks explained, and his comment about service. Ugh. I shot to my feet, determined to leave before things got any more awkward.

“Don’t go,” he said. He didn’t touch me, but his authoritative voice arrested me in the act of motion. “You don’t have to leave.”

I tried to think of something to reply. Of course I have to leave. This is embarrassing. You’re my teacher. But nothing came. When he gestured to the bench beside him, I sat.

“I’ve seen you around the clubs before,” he said, without insinuation or judgment. “I apologize that I’ve never said hi.”

“That would have been kind of awkward.”

“Why? Because we know each other from Norton?” The corners of his mouth tilted up. I understood why some of the students found him handsome. In that sensual smile, I understood, but I didn’t want to think about it.

“Trust me when I tell you we’re not the only kinky people roaming Norton’s halls,” he said. His dark eyes took in my black dress, then lingered at my bare throat. “So what are you? Dom or sub? Or switch?”

I touched my neck. “Nothing, right now. I don’t know.”

“Just curious?”

I didn’t want him to think I was some gawker, that I hadn’t paid my dues—hellish dues—under a Dominant’s hand. “I have experience. I was in a really intense relationship. I was a sub, I guess, but I…I wanted to take a break. I mean, I have been taking a break.”

“Sometimes you need a break.”

I looked at his gold wedding ring, maybe too obviously. He looked at it too and wiggled his ring finger. “She knows I’m here,” he said. “She’s okay with it. She’s not into submission, or playing around with pain.”

“Oh. Okay. I mean, whatever. I guess that’s your business.”

“But you wanted to know.” He shrugged. “I don’t come out to these places looking for attachment. I love my wife very much. It’s more to do the things I like, that she doesn’t like.”

It seemed alien to me, that someone could do these things without a deep and complicated emotional attachment. That someone could come here and leave a wife at home.