Of Being Yours[another way 2] by Anna Martin Page A

fucked everywhere. Men crawled on their knees and licked leather boots. Stuff that I didn’t even like to consider happened in the bathrooms.
    But when Will had linked my cuffs to a cross on the wall and flogged my back while other men watched and openly jerked off at my cries of pain, it was one of the most erotic things I’d ever experienced.
    I slipped my hand into Will’s.
    “Can we go too?” I asked him.
    He looked at me in surprise. “You sure?”
    I nodded.
    He kissed me on the forehead. “Sure. Of course.”
    We found Laura, said our good-byes, and piled into my car to drive the short distance downtown to the back street where the Dungeon lurked. To get in, we each had to slap a twenty into the palm of a guy who had hands the size of trash can lids. He grunted in response and jerked his head back toward the long narrow corridor that led to a steep flight of stairs.
    I let Cass and his Pet take the lead, following with my hand in Will’s.
    In the Dungeon anonymity was the name of the game. No one referred to anyone else by name. If you saw a friend, a neighbor, a colleague, you walked past them. No eye contact, no ID, no limits. There was no house safeword here. No questions asked beyond “positive or negative?”
    Condoms were supplied. It was up to you if you used them.
    We’d never fucked in the Dungeon and never would. It was a conversation we’d had after the first time we’d come here and a decision made by mutual agreement.
    The walls were painted a matte black, but the paint was peeling in places, and corners were cut when repainting was done, which was rarely. The stairs were lit with alternating electric blue and UV bulbs, casting an eerie glow over skin and clothes. It was a sign—this place was otherworldly. The normal rules did not apply here.
    Halfway down the stairs I stopped and wrote JR + WA in the condensation that had built up on the wall, and encircled it with a heart.
    “Who says romance is dead?” Will said, laughing, and tugged me down the last few stairs.
    Most D/s clubs—the nice ones, at least—have a particular smell about them. It’s harsh, antiseptic, telling you that the equipment and its users are kept clean. Not here though. It’s sweat and men and testosterone and come, a new atmosphere that tells you the occupants of the bar are not kept clean. And that’s the way they like it.
    When we reached the short, squat bar, we saw some poor bastard handcuffed to the metal pole that ran the length of the wood. A helpful someone had written FAGGOT SLUT on his back, and a guy in a leather harness was fucking him hard.
    The club was usually wanton, but they must have gone all out for the holiday.
    “Want a drink?” Will asked.
    I nodded. “Yeah. Vodka.”
    I didn’t trust anything else in this place. The clear alcohol would kill any germs.
    The barman served it in four shot glasses. We clinked the first two and knocked back the next in quick succession. Immediately the burn spread down to my stomach.
    I met Will’s eyes. I wanted this… whatever this was that he wanted to give me. I wanted him. Always.
    He seemed to understand my silent communication, maybe better than I did myself.
    “Stand over by that wall,” he said, pointing to an area where several lengths of hemp rope were hanging from iron pegs. “Shirt off.”
    I followed his instruction and found a suitable spot where I could see and be seen, then grasped each elbow with the opposite hand behind my back, spread my legs, and waited for him.
    The Dungeon wasn’t the sort of place where they stood on ceremony; unlike our previous session of the evening, no one was going to invite us to play, and people would watch or not depending on what they wanted, rather than our dictating when things would start and finish. It required a totally different mind-set and the bringing forward of my normally well-hidden exhibitionist nature.
    When Will came up behind me, once again he caressed my shoulder with his lips before he