C is for... (BDSM Checklist #3) By L. Dubois
Chapter One
James examined the single sheet of paper he’d pulled from the envelope labeled “C.” When the overseers of Las Palmas Oscuras, LA’s most exclusive BDSM club, called all members together, a club-wide sex game was the last thing he’d imagined they’d announce… Each Dom, Master, Owner, submissive, and slave was assigned a letter of the alphabet and everything that went with it. They had to work though each kink, toy, and fetish on the BDSM checklist, which all members filled out when they joined. It was a rather intriguing idea, made all the more interesting because the Doms didn’t get to choose subs—the overseers had assigned everyone partners.
Over the past year, James had played with many of the uncollared subs in the club. He liked his BDSM play pleasure-focused and never engaged in scenes that lasted too long, or took either player too deep into that dark place of truth that was so dangerous.
Beside him, Xavier, a Master with a reputation for brutal play, opened his envelope. “f*ck
.”
James looked over. “Problem?”
Xavier held up a glossy photo of a woman James knew—in the biblical sense. “Mae is a lovely sub,” James told Xavier. “Don’t let her looks fool you. She’s also very smart and has a quick wit. She’s a pleasure to talk to.”
“I’m not looking for a f*ck
ing therapist.”
James shrugged. “I didn’t say she was one.” He didn’t add that a resident therapist wouldn’t be a bad idea at Las Palmas, whose members were wealthy, powerful, and more often than not, wrestling with some demons.
And he was no exception.
“Isn’t she the one who did that ribbon bondage presentation?” The other Dom’s voice dripped with derision as he flicked through the stack of papers in his envelope—the submissive’s BDSM checklist, and his own.
Frowning slightly, James folded his own nearly empty envelope in half. “Just…try not to break her.” BDSM play was dangerous, and that danger wasn’t just physical. The emotional and spiritual damage that could be inflicted inside the delicate world of the D/s relationship was far more lasting than bruises and welts.
The subs filed out of the large converted barn, one of many buildings on the expansive adobe-style estate and the only one big enough to hold all members at once. Shortly after, the Doms started filing out too.
Once outside, James circled the building until he was out of sight, staring out at the immaculate grounds, privacy fence, and beyond that, the gold and green hills of Malibu. Leaning against the wall, he once more opened his envelope. Xavier’s had been thick, containing two checklists and a photo. He had only a single sheet of paper bearing a single typed sentence.
Return next week to meet your partners.
Partners?
The overseers had said that anyone who wasn’t already bonded could be partnered with someone, or someones, new. It seemed that he was in for a ménage, which was never a bad idea. But the lack of a checklist meant he couldn’t peruse the inventory of items and kinks that began with the letter C.
The only one he could think of was collar.
Closing his eyes, James leaned his head back against the smooth plaster of the barn wall.
Collars had a million uses in BDSM play—from simple non-weight bearing restraint to posture correction and animal play.
But the most dangerous, in James’s opinion, was symbolic collaring—using a collar the same way you used a wedding ring. Collars showed more than just commitment, but ownership. At Las Palmas, members in Owner/slave or permanent Master/submissive relationships were recognized as being in an exclusive committed relationship by being “bound” together, rather than collaring. He, more than anyone, knew why Las Palmas used the distinction, though plenty of couples were both formally bound by the club’s rules and used the elegant simplicity of a collar.
He tapped the envelope against his palm. He had a bad feeling about the letter “C.”
*****
Beth shifted her weight to her left hand, lifted her right off the wood floor and flexed her wrist. A crop struck her thigh.
“Be good, girlie.”
Dropping her hand back to the floor, Beth resumed her position on hands and knees, serving as a footrest for her owner. Madame Cat lifted her legs a fraction of an inch off Beth’s lower back, switching which ankle was crossed on top.