submission-awakening

The club’s private lounge. Dim lights hugged dark wood panels. Heavy drapes muffled the thumping bass outside. My heart hammered as the door clicked shut behind us. Him, the owner, that silver-templed gentleman with eyes that stripped souls. And there, slouched on the banquette, Beau-Brun, nursing whiskey, smirking like he’d won the lottery. Sweat beaded…