Strict Consequences by Morticia Knight

Chapter One
    Damn. Not one Dom here I’ve played with before.
    Club Consequence was unbelievably crowded for a Wednesday night and Garson doubted there’d be a room available at all. When he’d asked the host if there were spots still available if one of his regular Doms came in, he’d informed Garson that they were all full, but that the public areas were always an option.
    Not a chance.
    Garson treasured his privacy and the focus of a Master for the one precious hour they shared together. From where he leaned against the bar, he glanced around the room again, sipping on his usual soda water with three slices of lime, searching for a familiar face. He readjusted his black-rimmed glasses on his nose. He wasn’t in the mood to linger all evening with only a chance that he might get in. Garson didn’t hang out at the club for any other reason than to have a hardcore session. He didn’t dance, didn’t socialize, didn’t make friends with the other subs or pander to the Doms. He was only interested in one thing. Pain and submission. Once he’d had his dose, he was good for another week. Usually.
    He’d shown up on impulse, only five days since his last appearance at the club. After Garson gave a lengthy introduction to the influence of women on nineteenth-century poetry, the lack of attention he’d experienced from his freshman students at Pasadena City College had sent him straight to Club Consequence. He needed a balm, something to center him.
    No room. No Jarvis.
    The night’s prospects were dismal. Garson’s repeated scan of the crowd had failed to produce a sighting of his favorite and most commanding Dom. The knowledge that showing up on a night other than his regular Friday might mean that he’d have to settle for a different Dom hadn’t prevented him from attending. But it didn’t mean that he hadn’t held on to hope.
    Sighing, he angled his body to rest his elbows on the bar’s copper surface, his cool drink clutched between his hands. No one spoke to his need stronger than Jarvis. In the five years since he’d discovered the joy and release of BDSM, Garson hadn’t found a Dom as attuned to him as the daunting man. Once he’d met the stunningly handsome Master the previous year, it’d been a blissful time under the sure hand of the Dom. Even if they weren’t always able to scene together when Garson made his weekly appearance, the majority of Garson’s interludes had been with him. They didn’t have each other’s contact info, which meant there was no guarantee that they’d hook up. Garson never gave out his number and he’d never presumed to ask Jarvis for his.
    And why would he? Garson had no interest in seeking out anything other than what he could get at the club. It made setting up a time to meet near impossible, but it was better that way. Then he wouldn’t be bothered by pesky invites he had no intention of accepting and he would be the one to maintain the control over any playtime meetings. Besides, he never interacted sexually with his Doms other than the occasional demand of a blow job from one, or if he was being stretched with a toy. Those were permissible activities on his list of limits. Anyone he played with received a copy before they began their first scene together.
    His own orgasms, however, were a hard limit—his alone. It kept the encounters from becoming too personal and immediately eliminated the suggestion that an exclusive arrangement might form. Emotional entanglements and drama were nothing he was interested in—only the pleasure of the pain and the satisfaction of giving himself over to another man’s will. After a rousing session at the club, he’d go home and take care of his own needs himself.
    Then why is it that I think about Jarvis when I’m bringing myself off?
    He took a nervous sip of his drink, the leather he wore suddenly too hot, the sensation