Shadow and Darkness

Excerpt From: Shadow and Darkness

That attire—expensive denims, brand name polo shirt, polished leather loafers—suggests he is wealthy, but one can’t always be sure from appearances. His voice, cultured, brings upper class to mind...though, again, it is foolhardy of me to assume. So often it makes an ass out of you and me.

Name: Luke Johnson

Preference: Bastinado

Notes: Arrogant upon arrival, which lingers at the beginning of the session, submissive thereafter, embarrassed upon leaving. Non-violent. Unmarried.

My dungeon, one of many housed in this remodelled warehouse in London’s belly, witnesses what some may say are atrocities. This black—painted room allows release of men’s wants—wants they wouldn’t otherwise have assuaged. It seems wives don’t understand, and these men...they are, for the most part, ashamed of their desires. Society—cruel society—deems their fantasies absurd, twisted, and weird.

I do not.

The stairs outside my dungeon creak, and I wonder, not for the first time today, if it’s Luke’s tread. Beautiful Luke, who garners more than a second glance from the ladies.

From me.

On more than one occasion I’ve imagined Luke entering a bar. All heads—male and female—look his way. Women swoon at the thought of belonging to him. Men harbour secret wishes that they were him.

I would say Luke is well aware of the attention he commands. He enters my room once a week, always on a Monday, and the air he brings with him holds a charge. A tangible aura. I’d made a bargain with myself to keep business and pleasure separate. If I hadn’t, I’d fuck him. He’s one of the few clients that makes me hot...wet. One of those clients I’d break my own rule for.

Another set of creaks, heavier than the last, indicate the blond Adonis with a penchant for bastinado has arrived. Why he loves his feet caned I don’t know, and I would never bring myself to ask. It isn’t any of my business, although the question still burns my tongue every time I see him.

I inhale, release the breath with slow deliberation, and straighten my shoulders. Upon entrance, he’ll see a black—haired woman, kohl—lined eyes steely, no—nonsense, red lips full and soft. My outfit, the one Luke prefers, resembles that of Catwoman, minus the ears. He loves the clothing, said once that he imagines the feel of it—rubbery and tacky on his hands—that stroking it while I cane him would make him come faster. I had bitten back a gentle laugh at that. He comes fast enough as it is.

He knocks on the door, and I wonder what he’s been up to this weekend just past. Last Monday he’d reported his involvement in a bar brawl. The other week he’d said he’d found himself in an altercation with some man in the gym. One never has any idea of his transgressions until the session begins.

"Enter," I say.

And wait. Luke always takes a moment to turn the handle and allow himself entrance into my domain. I suspect he fights with himself as to whether he should come in. Or whether he should turn away—leave the premises, never to return. I would guess his predilection gives him sleepless nights. On the one hand he can’t help what he desires, yet on the other... Maybe he thinks people would ridicule him if he let the secret out, perhaps say he was strange, off the wall. For a man like Luke, being cast out of his manly circles, scorned for his needs...well, it would crush him. He’s the ultimate alpha, and alphas, at least the ones I’ve met, don’t like slights of any kind.

The handle rattles, the keeper releases, and the door swings open. And there stands Beautiful Luke, his six-foot-six frame silhouetted by the stark hallway lighting. Blond hair, just long enough to touch his shoulders—wispy waves that call out for me to run my fingers through them, to bury my nose in their softness. Broad shoulders—so broad he almost fills the frame. A muscled chest that a woman could well imagine beneath that white T-shirt of his, one I have seen on many occasion. His nose is skewed—definitely having been broken at some point—and I like that about him. He looks rough around the edges, more than ready for a little...force in the bedroom. The thought of him switching and being the Dom whispers through my mind, and I know he’s the only man I’ve met so far who I’d reverse roles for. To be splayed beneath him, accept everything he dishes out, looking into those blue eyes...

"Good morning, Luke." Thankfully, my voice is steady, doesn’t belie the tremor racing through me just at the sight of him. I can smell him, all tangy aftershave and fresh sweat. I want that sweat on me. I want that scent so close I can’t breathe.

He steps inside and closes the door, his unblemished hand with its square—ended fingers flat against the wood. He didn’t fight this weekend, then. As usual, he ignores me, slaps his payment on the small wooden table beside the door, and stalks past, heading for the changing room at the back. Inside, he turns to snap the red curtain across for privacy, and his gaze meets mine, a hint of disgust in those heavenly irises. He holds me in contempt, I know. However, I don’t care—much. He arrives, he pays, he gains what he seeks, and leaves.

Leaves me longing for next Monday.

I play a game every time he arrives. Will he preserve his arrogance upon leaving the changing room this week? Will he ignore the myriad instruments hanging on the walls instead of emerging to hang his head and take in the tools one by one from beneath lowered lashes? To check if anything new has gained a place on one of the hooks? I’m amused as to why he bothers. His only interest so far has been the riding crop.

His naked emergence today matches every other.