The Pub filled slowly in winter. San Francisco cold was different than England’s, but not by much. The chill seemed to settle into everything, making bones ache. Emma moved behind the bar, efficient in her routine. She wiped the mahogany, set coasters along the polished wood, checked the shine of the brass fixtures she’d already polished earlier that day.

Her motions were always the same: wiping the bar in slow, clockwise circles. The mahogany surface reflected her in little pieces, fragments mixed with the shine of the bottles behind her. Whiskey, gin, vodka, each bottle lined up in its space, arranged with care: first by height, then by alphabet, always with labels facing out. The bar top gleamed under her hand. Brass caught the light, distorting the shapes around it. Tuesday nights were for regulars: the accountant in the corner booth, the grad student at table five, the sales rep who always came in for whiskey neat. Emma knew their drinks, their stories, the shape of their troubles.

She reached for a rocks glass, filled it with ice, poured out two fingers of bourbon. She brought it to the accountant, who smiled up at her before returning to the glow of his laptop.

This was her rhythm: pour, serve, listen, repeat.

At six-twenty, Lena came in.

You heard Lena first: the boots on tile, her laugh, the way she called across the room to the guy at table one. She wore her jacket with metal rings down the sleeves, black pants, boots that squeaked a little. Hair cropped short on one side and streaked blue. Tattoos bright against her arms, the ink bold and restless: Japanese. Multiple rings on every finger. She took her seat at the end of the bar, same as always, where she could see everything.

“Evening, Lena.” Emma gave her regulars a different warmth, a tone just for them. “The usual?”

“Please.”

Gin and tonic, extra lime, light on the ice. Emma remembered it; she’d learned Lena’s habits over the weeks. She set the glass on a napkin. Lena’s hand closed around it, black-polished nails, a silver ring shaped like a snake swallowing its own tail.

“You’re good at that.” Lena’s gaze followed Emma’s hands.

“Practice.”

“Anticipating what people need before they ask.”

Emma only shrugged, moving down to refill the professor’s pint. He was telling some story about Victorian architecture. She nodded, made the right noises. Her hands ran on autopilot: pull the tap, angle the glass, let the foam settle.

The grad student came up for another Guinness. He launched into something about his dissertation advisor, and Emma listened, nodding where she should, offering the kind of sympathy that let people feel lighter. He talked for ten minutes, left a decent tip, and walked back to his table seeming easier in himself.

She could feel Lena watching her. Not just looking, but measuring.

The sales rep wanted a refill. The accountant signaled for his tab. Emma moved through her tasks, steady and professional, but the sense of Lena’s gaze lingered, as if she was being studied, a subject in a frame of polished wood and glass.

The evening moved forward, ticking off its rituals. Customers came and went, drifting like weather through the open door. Emma worked her cycle: serve, clean, listen. The architect nursed his scotch and catalogued the ways his client made life hell. The professor, with his tweed and pints, mused about some novel he was deep into. In one of the booths, a couple celebrated an anniversary. Emma brought them champagne, on the house, and the bubbles made them laugh.

By ten o’clock, most of the crowd had faded. Just Lena at the bar, quiet behind a gin and tonic, and the professor, savoring his third pint. Emma gathered empties, loaded the washer below the counter. She lost herself in the rhythm, the familiar clink of glasses, suds and rinse, the clean repetition soothing her. Work. Purpose. Structure.

Lena watched her, steady and silent, gaze fixed over the rim of her drink. There was a difference to it. Not the passive attention of customers, but something more deliberate. Focused, assessing.

At ten-thirty, the professor left. True to form, he tipped well and called a gentle goodnight. The door closed behind him with a solid echo.

The pub transformed. With fewer people, the hush deepened, a hush that felt less empty than intimate. Emma wiped down tables and straightened chairs, moving through the quiet. She kept her eyes away from Lena.

"You do that a lot," Lena said, her voice echoing across the space.

Emma paused. "Do what?"

"Listen. Everyone pours their stories out. You just... absorb it."

Emma returned to the bar, picked up a glass, and started polishing, though the glass already gleamed. "It’s my job."

Lena leaned forward, elbows planted on the mahogany. "Is it? Or is there more?" Her voice was gentle, curious. "Who listens to Emma?"

The glass stilled in Emma’s hand, halfway to the shelf. She turned, meeting Lena’s gaze.

"I’m sorry?"

Lena gestured at the empty pub. "You listen to everyone. All their dramas, their complaints, their little heartbreaks. You hold the space for them." She lowered her voice. "But who does that for you?"

A knot formed in Emma’s throat. She gripped the glass tighter, knuckles whitening. Setting it down with care, she moved to the far side of the bar, pretending to organize bottles that didn’t need it. Breathing in, out. Focused.

The question lingered, as real as the wood and glass in her hands. No one had ever asked; not in a decade behind the bar, not in the fifteen years since David. She listened, others talked. That was the how it worked.

She stayed at the far end, methodically shifting bottles, letting her pulse slow. When she finally returned, she picked up the glass again, hands finding comfort in the motion. "Sorry. That was rude, walking away."

"You were overwhelmed."

"Yes." Emma met Lena’s eyes. "No one’s ever put it quite like that before."

Lena’s gaze softened. "I could tell."

They let the silence settle, not awkward but present. Emma finished polishing the glass, placing it with the others. Lena sipped her drink, watching.

"Where did you go to school?" Lena asked after a moment.

The shift in conversation felt intentional, a little safer. Emma exhaled. "Britain, originally. Boarding school."

"The name?"

Emma hesitated, the towel squeaking against the glass. "Hawthorne Academy."

Lena’s eyebrows rose. "Prestigious. Traditional."

"Very."

"They still use corporal punishment there?"

Emma nearly dropped the glass. She steadied it, setting it down. "When I was there, yes."

Lena leaned in, a little smile in her voice. "Ever get sent to the principal’s office?"

Emma kept her focus on her hands. "Headmistress."

“Whatever.” Lena’s voice stayed light, but her eyes locked in. "What was it like?"

Emma’s tone was even, practiced. "All girls. Uniforms. Rules for everything. Consequences if you broke them."

"Tell me."

It wasn’t really a question, more like an invitation. The words came, first slow, then easier.

"Demerits for minor things. Detention. For real trouble, it was corporal punishment. Paddle, mostly. Sometimes the cane." She felt her breath catch on the last word.

Lena waited, letting the silence work.

"I got it several times. Bent over the headmistress’s desk. Usually six strokes." Emma’s hands clenched around the glass. "Later, I became head girl. I was the one giving it out. The punishments. Watching the younger girls brace themselves, then surrender to it."

"How did it make you feel?" Lena’s voice had gone lower, intimate. "Receiving it."

Emma put the glass down. Her hands shook. "I should check the back. See if we need more…"

"Emma." Lena’s tone was gentle, but solid. Refusing to let her run.

Emma stopped, holding onto the edge of the bar. The wood was cool and grounding in her palms.

"How did it make you feel?"

The answer hovered there, dangerous and unspoken. She’d never said it aloud. Not to David. Not to anyone. Just carried it, silent, like a burn that never healed.

Lena moved closer, so their faces were almost level across the bar. Emma caught the scent of her perfume, dark and spicy, noticed the silver in her eyes.

"I think you know," Lena said softly. "And I think you’ve been carrying it alone a long time."

Emma tried to busy her hands with the straw canister, but her fingers trembled. Memory surfaced: the study’s heavy quiet, wood panels, the headmistress, the cane on the blotter. Thin. Biting.

"The first time…" Emma hesitated. She remembered the hallway, cold tile, the sting of cane, the crack of it echoing. Some girls flinched, some didn’t. Sweat and cheap perfume. Her own body aching in her uniform, a secret pulse building.

"Sixth Form. First year. I was 16. I broke curfew. Six strokes."

Lena absorbed it, letting the moment breathe. "Did you break curfew again?"

A small smile flickered on Emma’s lips. "Yes." Softer.

"On purpose?"

Lena already knew. "Yes." Even quieter.

"You became head girl?"

Emma nodded, breath stumbled. "Yes, final year. I was 18. I administered punishment. Cane and paddle. To first year sixth form girls, 16 years old. They would bend over my desk. Their faces, the sounds they made. How their bodies tensed, then yielded. Eventually surrendered." Admitting it sent a rush through her. Her thighs pressed together, hidden by the bar.

Lena smiled and asked, "Which was better, receiving or giving?"

Emma felt her breath catch. She didn't answer at first.

"Or," Lena said, pausing for a moment, "both?"

Emma turned away. "Both," she whispered.

"Knew it," Lena replied. She leaned in, as if the bar itself was closing in around them, drawing them together. "Why is that?"

Emma hesitated, eyes fixed on the polished wood. "Because it excited me," she said, voice barely audible. "The anticipation. The ritual of it. Pulling down my knickers, bending over, counting the strokes. By the end I was dripping, desperate. I'd go back to my room and touch myself until I came."

The memory seemed to take over her body. Her breath came faster, nipples tightening against her bra, the ache between her legs deepening. She realized how close they were now, Lena’s face only inches away. Emma could see her own reflection, small and exposed, in Lena’s eyes.

"And since then?" Lena asked.

"Nothing. My husband never knew. Would never have understood. He died in the military, in the Middle East. After that, it was just surviving. Raising Mia. No room for... that."

"There’s always room," Lena said. Her hand covered Emma’s on the bar, warm and steady. "For what we need."

Emma stared at their hands together, her body remembering the old heat, the pulse between her thighs, the hunger she’d tried to bury. Lena’s eyes stayed on her, calm and unwavering.

"And giving it?" Lena asked.

"Worse," Emma said, her voice rough. "Better. I don’t know. When I became head girl, I’d call students into my office. Lecture them on rules and consequences. Make them bend over. Raise the paddle. Feel the weight in my arm as it landed. Watch their bodies react, listen to their gasps, count the strokes. By the end I’d be soaking. I had to finish myself after they left."

Her fingers ached from gripping the bar. The words spilled out now, unstoppable.

"The cane was...intense. Sharper. Left marks for days. I used it only for serious infractions. The ritual felt ceremonial: stripping, positioning, making them wait. The whistle through the air before it struck, that line of fire. Their cries. My arousal building with every stroke. Sometimes I thought I’d come just from giving it."

Lena held her gaze, steady and attentive. "Do you miss it?"

Emma could only nod, voice breaking. "Desperately. I’ve spent years pretending I don’t. Being the responsible mother, the reliable employee, the one who keeps it all together. But yes. I miss it. Both sides. Being bent over and being in control. The pain. The power. All of it."

Silence came over them, loud in her ears. She felt raw, exposed. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Lena, afraid of what she might see there.

But Lena’s hand remained, warm and unhurried. Not moving away.

"Thank you," Lena said quietly. "For trusting me."

Emma looked up, searching Lena’s face. She didn’t find disgust or judgment, only recognition and understanding. And something else, not quite nameable.

“How did you know?” Emma said.

Lena smiled. “It’s written all over your face,” she replied, then paused. “For someone who can see.”

The atmosphere between them shifted, charged and different. The pub seemed empty except for their quiet voices, the amber light glinting off the bottles and glasses, the weight of Emma’s confession hanging in the air.

Emma glanced at the clock: eleven-fifteen, nearly closing. She moved through her routine, grateful for the familiar rhythm after so much exposure. She gathered the last glasses, ran them through the washer, wiped down each table with slow, deliberate strokes. Chairs went up onto tables one by one, wooden legs pointing skyward, the room becoming a closed, geometric space.

Lena stayed at the bar, sipping another gin and tonic, eyes following Emma’s movements. Emma felt the attention on her, almost like a physical touch. She became aware of her body, the way her hips moved, the grip of her hands on the cloth, the way she kept her breathing even and calm, even as her nerves thrummed.

She worked behind the bar, checking bottles, counting the till, entering totals in the ledger with steady hands. When she spoke, she kept her eyes down.

"You don’t have to wait," Emma said. "I’ll be at least twenty minutes."

"I’m not in a hurry."

Emma finished the cash count and made her notes, hands steady despite the flutter inside. Finally she went to the front, flipped the sign to Closed, and locked the heavy bolt. The sound echoed in the hush.

Now they were alone. The realization settled on her, making the light seem softer and the room smaller, the polished wood and brass reflecting only the two of them.

Emma turned to find Lena no longer at the bar, but standing nearby, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume: something dark and layered, with hints of leather and smoke. Emma could see the detailed ink on her arms, the silver at her throat, the hardware in her ears.

"I need to tell you something," Lena said. Her voice was calm, direct. "About what I do."

Emma waited, heart pounding.

"I own a fetish clothing business. High-end," Lena said, matter-of-fact. "Started with custom leather, then jewelry, implements, toys. Now I’m moving into evening wear with an edge. Things people can wear in public."

Emma's breath caught. The confession she'd made suddenly took on new meaning.

"We’re growing and I need more help. We do product photography regularly. Models in various pieces. Different settings. I need someone to help manage the shoots." Lena held Emma's gaze. "Coordinate the models. Arrange the implements. Set up the scenes. Make sure everything runs smoothly."

"Why me?" Emma asked, voice thin.

"Because you understand both sides," Lena said softly. "You know how it feels to submit. To be bent over, disciplined. But you also know how to be in charge. To give correction. That’s rare."

"I don’t have experience with..." Emma started.

"You have exactly the right experience," Lena said. "Discipline. Structure. Authority. The psychology of dominance and submission. What bodies look like when they respond to control. What you shared tonight, that’s not something most people ever understand."

Emma felt her breath shorten. It was as if nothing existed but Lena’s voice, every word landing somewhere deep.

"I can teach you the technical things. Lighting, composition. That’s easy." Lena reached into her jacket and pulled out a card, setting it on the bar and sliding it across. "The rest, you either have or you don’t."

Emma stepped closer and reached for the card. Her fingers touched Lena’s. The sensation started at her skin and ran straight up her arm. Her hand trembled.

They stayed like that, both touching the card, the electricity between them almost visible.

Then Lena withdrew her hand, giving Emma space.

Emma studied the card. Black, with silver embossed letters: "Lena's Designs." Address in SOMA, phone, email. The card felt heavy and very real.

"I don’t know anything about photography," Emma said, though even she could hear the lack of conviction.

"You don’t need to. I have photographers. I need someone who sees the subtlety. Who understands the power dynamics. Someone who can glance at a model bound to a Saint Andrew’s cross and know if the pose is right, if the tension is true."

The image made something inside Emma flutter. She pressed her thighs together, feeling the pulse of desire.

"Think about it," Lena said, voice gentler now. "You don’t have to decide tonight. But Emma..." She waited until Emma looked up. "This is a chance to stop hiding. To have what you need."

The words felt like a blow and a promise at once. Emma’s chest ached. Her vision blurred. She blinked and held onto the card.

"I’ll pay you double what you make here. To start." Lena continued, "Benefits. Flexible hours. Three or four days a week. Have time for your other commitments."

Double. The word rang out, practical and impossible to ignore. Emma’s mind ran the numbers: she could quit one, maybe two, of her other jobs. More time for Mia. Less scrambling. Less exhaustion.

But it also meant stepping into a world she’d kept at a distance. A part of herself she’d locked away, when she became a mother, when she decided to be responsible.

Her hand shook. The card trembled. She stared at the silver letters until they blurred.

"It’s not just about clothes," Emma said, finding the words.

"No. It’s about transformation. Power. Surrender. Everything you know, but haven’t let yourself have for years."

Emma met Lena’s eyes. What she saw there was patience, a challenge, and something like hope. Who could she be, if she said yes?

"I have a daughter," Emma said. "She’s in college now. But I’m still responsible..."

"This is legitimate work. Professional. You’d be managing shoots, not appearing in them, unless you wanted to." Lena paused, letting the possibility hang. "You could, if you chose to."

Emma felt it settle inside her: a mix of fear, curiosity, and something almost like hunger. Her fingers pressed into the card, the edges biting. She was aware of the heat between her legs, the wetness. She cleared her throat. "I need to think about it."

"Of course. Think about it," Lena said. She moved to the door. “Cash, under the table. We’ll work around your schedule.”

Emma ran her thumb along the card’s edge. Her hand wouldn’t stop shaking. She could see her own distorted reflection in the silver letters. With effort, she unlocked the door, fingers trembling, the key scraping before it finally turned.

Lena paused in the doorway, the street light outlining her in silver edges. “Text me if you want to stop by and talk more,” she said, “If not,” she shrugged, “no worries.”

Then she was gone. The door swung shut, and Emma was alone in the silent pub, Lena’s card in her hand: black and silver, heavier than it looked.

She caught her reflection in the darkened window, a woman with hair escaping its band, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. Someone she almost didn’t recognize, alive in a way she hadn’t been for years.

She looked again at the card. SOMA. She knew the area: old warehouses, now galleries and studios, places where people went to find what they needed. What they wanted. Who they were.

Her hand shook, making the silver letters flicker and fade in the low light.

Like a signal, or a door opening. Drawing her toward something waiting, patiently, just beneath the surface.

___________________

The warehouse looked abandoned at first glance. A brick façade, paint cracked and peeling, the windows dulled by grime; even the light outside seemed reluctant to touch the place. Emma checked the card again, just to be sure. The address matched. She stood on the sidewalk, feeling the black card stock between her fingers, thumb passing again and again over the raised silver letters. Three days since Lena had left the card on the bar, the memory of it, the weight of it in her pocket, the feel of the letters against her skin. Three days, and she hadn’t texted, not until this morning.

Her message had been simple: Can I visit today?

Lena’s reply came right away. Noon. See you then.

Emma’s hand shook as she reached for the door. Heavy steel, industrial, the kind that felt like it belonged to another era. There was a buzzer. She pressed it. Heard nothing, just silence and her own heartbeat.

Then, the lock clicked. The door opened.

Lena stood in the frame, black jeans and a gray tank top, tattoos vivid on her arms and shoulders. The light caught the piercings along her ears and through her brow. Her smile was warm, real, welcoming.

“Emma. Come in.”

The outside had lied. Inside, the warehouse was transformed. Cleaned brick walls, darkly stained exposed beams, windows clear and letting in a flood of natural light from every direction. There was track lighting, too, spotlighting certain areas, making the space feel curated and alive. The wood floor was old, marked by a century of footsteps. The scent in the air was a mix of stone, coffee, and something subtler, like leather and oil.

Emma stepped inside. As the door closed behind her, she felt the shift, a sense of being locked in, but not trapped. Held. Invited into possibility.

Lena’s gesture took in everything. “Welcome to my world. Workshop, studio, showroom, home. Sometimes all at once.” She walked ahead, boots firm on wood. “This main space is multipurpose. Photography, design work, prototyping, inventory, display. Not quite what you expected?”

Emma looked around, letting it all in. “No. Not at all.”

Lena smiled. “Everyone says that.”

The space opened in sections. First, a photography area: backdrop stands, seamless paper, light boxes, reflectors. Organized, professional. Beyond that, work tables with industrial sewing machines, cutting mats, rolls of leather and fabric. Metal findings in clear bins, each one labeled. Along one wall, racks of clothing: evening dresses, all sharp lines and deep colors, some black, some red, some dark as midnight. The fabric gleamed; the cuts were bold, dangerous, beautiful. Another area held a different kind of display. Harnesses, corsets stiff with metal boning, collars lined up in a row. Some delicate as jewelry, others deliberately heavy, made to restrain.

Emma’s breath caught. Her thighs pressed together; a spark ran through her.

Lena led her toward the photography section: a leather bench, backdrop stands, lighting poised above. “We do product photography here. Sometimes models wearing the pieces. Sometimes just the objects themselves. It’s always about the art.”

On the wall behind the area, implements hung in perfect order. Floggers sorted by weight, paddles by size. Canes stood upright in a rack, some with curved handles and some straight, made of rattan, bamboo, or synthetic blends.

Emma stopped. She couldn’t look away. The canes drew her, thin and flexible, each one a memory waiting to be touched.

Her hands trembled. She clasped them behind her back, fighting for composure.

Lena noticed, but said nothing. She gave Emma space.

The memories were sharp, immediate. Hawthorne Academy. The headmistress’s study. The cane on the polished desk. The ritual. Lowering her knickers, bending over, hands gripping the edge. The whistle through air, the sharp impact, the heat blooming across her skin.

Her nipples tightened. She felt slickness gathering between her legs. She bit her lip.

“Take your time,” Lena said, her voice gentle, unhurried. “It can be a lot.”

Emma nodded, still unable to speak. She turned away from the canes, letting her eyes wander to the art along the walls. Photographs and paintings, some traditional, others abstract or provocative. Bodies shaped by rope and shadow, the curve of a back, the long arch of a surrendered neck.

She lingered on a photograph: a woman suspended, arms over her head, rope intricate and beautiful around her body. The woman’s face was turned, but her posture was clear. Offered, given.

“Local artist,” Lena said, coming to stand beside her. “She models for us sometimes.”

They moved deeper into the space. Floggers hung from hooks, each one gleaming, leather oiled and ready. Paddles on a rack, some wood, some leather, some with holes drilled through for more bite. Tools, weapons, art.

Emma’s breathing changed, shorter, faster. She tried to quiet it, but Lena noticed.

“Familiar?”

Emma nodded. “Hawthorne had a similar set. Less variety.”

Lena opened a case and took out a small leather paddle, pressed it into Emma’s hand. “Feel this.”

Emma closed her fingers around it. The leather was stiff, the handle shaped by years of use. The feel brought the memory back, sharp and almost sweet.

“Beautiful,” Lena murmured. She took the paddle back, set it down. “You still have the look.”

Emma frowned. “What look?”

“The one people get when they want discipline. Or give it. You have both. Not many do.”

Emma looked away, not trusting her voice.

Movement in the kitchen caught her attention. A small woman, 20-something, blonde hair in a pixie cut, moved with careful grace.

“That’s Zoï,” Lena said, her tone shifting, softening. “She helps me run this place. Cooking, cleaning, organizing, screening guests.”

“Screening?”

“She’s a deep empath. Can tell who’s safe, who’s real. It’s a gift in this business.”

Emma watched the woman work. She chopped vegetables, added them to a pot, stirred. The motion was almost hypnotic.

“I found her living rough on the street two years ago,” Lena said, voice lower. “No memory of her past. Somewhere on the spectrum. But brilliant, and her empathy is… uncanny. She knows what people need.”

“She lives here?”

“We both do. Private quarters in the back. The business space stays separate.”

Lena started for the kitchen. Emma’s heart thudded; meeting new people always made her nervous, but this felt different. Like passing into a secret, inner room.

Zoï looked up as they approached. Her eyes were pale, almost silver, bright and alert. Freckles scattered across her nose. She smiled, warm but appraising, like static before a storm.

“Zoï,” Lena called.

She set down her knife and met Emma’s gaze, direct and searching. “This is Emma. The one I mentioned.”

Zoï came close, closer than Emma expected. She tilted her head, studying, wiped her hands on a towel. “You’re the bar lady,” she said.

Emma nodded.

Zoï’s eyes didn’t quite meet hers, flicking instead to Emma’s shirt, her hands, her shoes.

“She runs the place,” Lena said lightly. “I’m just the figurehead.”

Zoï rolled her eyes. “I clean up after Lena.”

She turned to Emma. “I’m Zoi. Like ‘toy’ with a zee.” Her voice was lilting, the cadence slightly different, musical. “Can you say that?” She waited.

Emma glanced at Lena, who only shrugged. “You mean, ‘toy’ with a zee?”

Zoï’s face lit up, pure delight. “Nobody ever gets it right! You’re first!” She bounced in place, clapped her hands once.

Emma found herself smiling, surprised.

“I feel things,” Zoï said, stepping in closer. Her voice shifted, more confidential. “What people feel. What they need. It comes into me, mostly through touch. Sometimes just by being near.”

Emma’s smile faded, uncertain how to answer.

“Large crowds are hard,” Zoï continued. “Too many feelings, too much noise, not sound, but feeling. It gets inside and tangles everything up.” She gestured at the warehouse. “Here is safe. Quiet in the ways that matter.”

Emma nodded, understanding more than she expected. “It’s peaceful here. Even with all this.” She glanced at the displays, the implements, the art.

“Yes!” Zoï’s eyes were bright. “You understand. Most people don’t.”

She reached out and took Emma’s hand, soft and unexpected. Zoï’s fingers traced Emma’s palm, as if reading something only she could see.

“You’re nervous,” Zoï observed. It wasn’t a question. “But also excited. Curious. You’ve been away from yourself for a long time.”

Emma’s breath caught. The words struck home.

Lena’s phone buzzed. She checked it, frowned. “Supplier issue. I need to take this.” She turned to Zoï. “Continue the tour?”

Zoï nodded, beaming. “Yes, Lena.”

Lena left, her voice fading into another room.

Zoï still held Emma’s hand. “Come. I’ll show you.”

They moved through the warehouse, Zoï’s fingers interlaced with Emma’s. The touch was strange, but not unwelcome. Intimate in its way.

“Large crowds hurt,” Zoï said as they walked. “Too many feelings pressing in. Like drowning, but in emotions. Here, it’s different. Controlled. Safe.”

She stopped at a glass display of collars. Some subtle, like jewelry. Others bold, unmistakable.

“Lena designs them all,” Zoï said. “Each one for a specific person. For their needs, their desires.”

Emma stared at a black leather collar with silver hardware. It was simple. Elegant. Her throat felt tight.

Her hand reached out, almost without her permission, fingers brushing a wrist cuff. Supple black leather, lined with something soft. She traced the edge, the buckle, picturing it closed around her wrist, fixed in place. The feeling was immediate: surrender, vulnerability.

She pulled her hand back, quickly.

Zoï watched her, eyes calm but knowing. “You can touch things. Lena doesn’t mind.”

Emma clasped her hands. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Emma hesitated. No answer came.

“You want to touch it,” Zoï said. “But you won’t let yourself.”

“How do you…”

“I feel it. The wanting. And the refusal. They’re both strong.”

They walked on, past the work tables, the photography space. Zoï pointed out the order, the details, everything in its place.

“You like things neat,” Emma said.

Zoï smiled, quick and shy. “Mess makes me itchy.”

Emma nodded. She understood that.

“This is a sanctuary,” Zoï said, voice softer. “Not just for me. For everyone who comes here. Lena creates space for people to be themselves. Their true selves. The parts they hide."

The words found a place inside Emma, made her chest tight.

"She did that for me." Zoï squeezed Emma's hand. "When I had nothing. No memory. No identity. She gave me space to be. To discover who Zoi is. Or maybe becoming."

They stopped at another display: cuffs, leather and metal, some lined with fur, some unadorned, practical.

“Your breathing changes when you look at these,” Zoï said. “Faster, but deeper. Like your body remembers what your mind won’t let in.”

Emma withdrew her hand. “You see a lot.”

“I feel a lot,” Zoï corrected. “It’s not the same. Seeing is surface. Feeling is underneath. What’s underneath?”

She cocked her head, studying Emma. “Very controlled. Proper. Contained. But under that, fire. A need so strong, it scares you.”

Emma’s hands shook. She pressed them together.

“That frightens you,” Zoï went on. “But it excites you, too. Both at once.”

“Yes.” The word slipped out.

Zoï smiled, gentle. “That’s why you’re here. Not really for a job. For permission.”

“Permission?”

“To be yourself again. Or for the first time. To stop pretending you don’t need what you need.”

Emma’s eyes blurred with sudden tears; she forced them back.

“Come,” Zoï said, taking her hand again. “There’s something special.”

They moved deeper into the warehouse, past the workspace, into the shadows where the light grew softer. Zoï’s hand was warm, leading.

Here, the walls were lined with floggers: leather, suede, rubber, each one hung from its own hook, ordered by weight and intensity. The leather was dark, oiled, almost shining.

Emma’s breathing changed again. The anticipation was physical, undeniable.

“These are for scenes,” Zoï explained. “Lena supplies dungeons all along the West coast. Private clients, too.”

There was a rack of paddles. Wood, leather, lexan. Some with drilled holes, some smooth. One had “SLUT” carved into the surface, another with hearts.

Emma stopped. Her hand rose without conscious thought, fingers hovering inches from the thick leather paddle, heavy and black, handle worn smooth with use. She didn’t quite touch it. Just hovered, caught between memory and need.

Zoï’s voice behind her, gentle but sure: “You’ve held one like this before.”

Emma nodded. Her voice cracked. “Yes. School. I was head girl.”

“And you miss it.”

Emma let her hand fall, silent, the admission hanging between them.

They continued, moving past a wall artfully lined with restraints. Leather cuffs, glinting metal shackles, coils of rope: hemp, jute, cotton, each wound in perfect symmetry, a palette of color and texture. It was almost beautiful, the order and care.

Zoï’s finger trailed a red rope. “Rope takes skill.”

Emma watched, the memory rising unbidden: not rope, but hands, strong and deliberate, holding her fast, guiding her into position. The headmistress’s grip. The certainty of it.

She picked up a book on knots, flipping through images of intricate ropework she couldn’t name. “You do this?” she asked quietly.

Zoï nodded. “Lena is teaching me. Japanese style. It’s very precise, very beautiful. She says I’m a natural.”

Emma put the book back, almost shy. “I never learned.”

“Zoï could show you.” The words were soft, but something hard threaded through them.

Heat rose in Emma’s cheeks. “Maybe sometime.”

Zoï turned, those bright eyes seeing past every mask. “Your pulse is racing. But you’re also wet. I can feel the arousal. The conflict.”

Emma bristled. “You can’t possibly…”

“I can.” Simple. Certain. “It’s like heat. Your body wants. Your mind resists. You’re trapped in that space between.”

They moved on, past racks of spreader bars in every length, gags of all shapes: ball, bit, ring, panel. Each perfectly displayed, each waiting.

And then the canes. Glass-fronted, dozens arranged by width, length, material: rattan, synthetic, some gripped in leather, some bare. Emma stopped cold. Everything in her went still.

And the memory was there: the headmistress’s office, the cane on the desk, so thin and flexible; the whistle through the air; fire across her skin; the way her pussy clenched with each stroke.

“These affect you most.” Zoï squeezed her hand, grounding her. “Not just on the surface. Deeper. In your core.”

Emma stared, body remembering: hands on the desk, skirt raised, knickers lowered, her breath held for the next stroke. Sharp, perfect, heat spreading, wetness pooling between her thighs.

“I can’t.” It came out a whisper.

“Can’t what?” Zoï’s voice was gentle.

“Can’t want this. I’m a mother. A widow. I have responsibilities.”

“Those are roles.” Zoï stepped closer, her presence somehow calming. “Not who you are. Who is underneath?”

Emma had no answer for that. Or maybe too many. Each one dangerous.

Then, quietly, Zoï said, “Lena is an angel. She found me under a bridge once. I was barely alive. No memory. Just fragments. Violence, fear. She brought me here. Fed me. Gave me space. No expectations. Just acceptance.”

Emma looked at her, searching for motive. “Why tell me this?”

“Because you need the same. Different details, but still drowning under responsibility.”

They stood there, silent, the canes between them like a mirror. Emma’s breath shallow. Her hand reached for a leather cuff, soft and supple, chrome buckle heavy in her palm. She traced the worn edges, the marks left by other hands, other wrists.

Her pussy clenched, the want rising. She pulled her hand back quick, like it burned.

“You want to know how it feels.” Zoï’s voice was low. “Around your wrists. The weight. The restriction. The surrender.”

Emma flinched. “Stop. Please.” Her voice shook.

“Okay.” Zoï squeezed her hand, softening. “But Zoï still knows. Come. There’s something else.”

They left the implements, walked a quiet hallway, the warehouse sounds fading behind them. Zoï opened a plain door, revealing a simple room: low Japanese bed, white sheets, meditation cushion, small altar with candles. The walls a pale gray, the shelves heavy with books. No computer, no phone. Just quiet.

“This is my home.” Zoï released her hand, moving into the room’s center. “When the world is too much.”

Emma drifted to the books. “You read?”

Zoï grinned, wide now. “It helps. Turns down the noise.”

She pointed to a painting: “Alyssa made that. Her ranch. Far away.” Then, a secret: “She has horses.” Zoï’s eyes rolled, a giggle escaping. “Lena says I can ride horses with Alyssa when we go there. Horses are quiet. Strong.”

Emma noticed a small pot on the sill, a new seedling pushing upward.

“What is it?”

Zoï patted Emma’s hand, patient, like talking to a child. “We don’t know. Emma. It has to grow up first. We can watch together.”

They sat in the hush, Zoï tracing gentle shapes on Emma’s hand. The silence wasn’t just lack of sound. It wrapped around them, soft as wool, deep as sleep. Profound.

Emma stood still, letting the quiet settle in her bones. She hadn’t realized how much noise she carried: worry, guilt, the restless ache. Now, just peace.

“How?” she whispered.

“I don’t know.” Zoï sat cross-legged on the cushion, utterly at home. “It’s always been like this. Lena made it. The room knows what Zoi needs.”

Emma dropped deeper into the calm. Her shoulders dropped. Tension seeped away.

Zoï watched her, smiling. “You feel it. Most people don’t. It scares them. But you…you need the quiet. The room. The breathing space.”

The quiet returned. Emma nodded. No words. Words would break something.

They stayed there, Emma standing, Zoï sitting, the silence rich between them. Not empty. Full. Acceptance, possibility. Something Emma recognized but dared not name.

After a while, Zoï said, “Lena is ready.”

Emma blinked. “How do you know?”

“I just know. Like you know when you’re hungry.” Zoï smiled, simple and true.

Emma didn’t want to leave the silence, that peace without judgment. Still, she nodded.

Zoï stood. Moved to her and intertwined fingers. Smiled, almost sad. “You don’t have to decide now.”

“Decide what?”

Zoi blinked twice. "If you belong here.”

Emma said nothing.

They left, closing the quiet behind them. The warehouse sounds returned, distant but real. But Emma carried a piece of that hush with her, like a seed planted deep.

In the kitchen, coffee scent filled the air. Lena sat at the counter, phone set aside, eyes sharp as they entered.

Zoï dropped Emma’s hand and went straight to Lena, smiling like sunlight. She caught Lena’s hand in hers.

Lena’s gaze flicked between them. “You two bond?”

Zoï grinned. “She’s one of us.”

Lena’s brows jumped. “Is she now?”

“Yes.” Zoï nodded, sure. “Emma said, ‘toy with a zee.’ She understands. Lena, Emma needs to ride horses with Zoï and Alyssa.”

Lena blinked. “What?”

Emma blushed. “Zoï showed me her room.”

Lena's coffee mug stopped halfway to her lips. Set it down. Careful. “Her room?”

“Yes. The silence. It was,” Emma searched for the word. “Wonderful.”

"No one goes in Zoï's room." Lena stared at Zoï. "No one."

Zoï shrugged. “Emma needed.”

Lena studied her, reassessing, measuring.

“You’re hired.”

Emma blinked. “What?”

“The job. It’s yours. When can you start?”

Emma stammered. “We haven’t discussed…”

“Details.” Lena stood, jacket slung over her shoulder. “Zoï doesn’t let anyone in her room. Not ever.”

She moved to the door. “I have a meeting downtown. Supplier thinks he can short me.”

Zoï shook her head. “Bad idea Supplier.”

“Show Emma the rest. Everything.”

She paused, one hand on the door. “Text me your schedule next week. We’ll set a time.”

Emma nodded, automatic.

Zoï’s eyes sparkled. “Remember: Lena. Zoï. Alyssa. Horses.”

“I’ll text Matt and look at some dates.” To Emma, “Alyssa helped out while going to art school here. Inspired a new traditional Western line. We’ll do a shoot at her ranch soon. Apparently,” nodding toward Zoi, “you’re going.”

Zoï pressed close to Emma, taking her hand again.

Lena smiled. “Like I said, she’s in charge.” And she was gone.

The building settled into quiet. Zoï tugged Emma’s hand. “There’s more.”

They walked deeper into the warehouse, into the oldest part. Original brick, dim light. “The playrooms,” Zoï said. “For private sessions. Events. Teaching.”

She opened a door. Inside, precision: a wall of canes behind glass, more than before. Rattan, Delrin, synthetic. Labeled by name: “Junior,” “Senior,” “Dragon,” “Schoolmaster.”

Emma’s breath caught. Her body reacted instantly.

She pressed her hand to the glass. Cold. A barrier. But the memory flooded her: “Senior,” she whispered.

“You know it?”

“The headmistress had one exactly like that. Rattan. Thirty-two inches. Standard for British schools.”

Her voice went distant, far away.

“First year. I missed curfew. Deliberately. Six strokes. Skirt up. Knickers down. Hands on the desk.”

Zoï listened, silent.

“The sound first. That whistle. Then the impact. Fire. A line of it across my ass. Perfect. Precise. She was an expert.”

Emma’s hand flattened on the glass.

“I was wet. Dripping. The pain turned into something else. Need. I came. Bent over her desk. Six strokes and I came.”

“She knew?”

Emma nodded. “Yes. She made me stay after. Explained some girls reacted that way. It was natural, but had to be controlled. Channeled.”

“That’s why you became head girl?”

“Partly. I was good at academics. Leadership. But also… discipline. I understood it. Both sides.”

“You gave it, too.”

“Yes.” Her voice shook. “Younger girls. Rule breakers. Over my desk. Same cane. Or paddle. Depending.”

She stepped away from the cabinet. A padded bench with built-in restraints waited. A St. Andrew’s cross dominated the far wall, dark wood gleaming under the lights. Implements lined the walls, each with its own place: floggers, paddles, straps, crops.

Emma’s hand found a leather strap, thick and supple, handle worn and familiar. She lifted it, tested its weight. It felt right.

“I was good at it,” she said. “Reading the girls. Knowing what they needed. Some needed sharp, quick. Others needed ritual, anticipation.”

The strap moved through her hand, memory alive in her muscles. She replaced it, careful.

“Some needed…” She let the rest drift away.

The air in the room changed, charged, like before a storm. Or a confession.

Emma drifted to a wooden paddle, oval, drilled through with holes. The wood was dark. Worn. She picked it up. The weight fit her hand.

“You remember,” Zoï said.

Emma nodded, lost in memory. The sound. The way skin blushed red. The way some girls cried. Or didn’t. The way some got wet. Like she did. Like now.

“Intense,” Emma breathed. “Electrifying. Power. Surrender. Both.”

She hung the paddle back, her hand reluctant.

“But you stopped.” Zoï stepped closer. “Pushed it away.”

“I had to. My husband. My daughter. My life. There was no room for…”

“For what Emma needs.”

Zoï reached up, hands gentle on Emma’s face. Fingers cool against heated skin. She traced Emma’s cheeks, jaw, lips.

Emma didn’t move. The touch was almost too much to bear. But she needed it.

“Zoï feels it. Years of wanting. Years of denying. It builds up. Too much.”

Her thumbs stroked Emma’s cheeks, slow and hypnotic.

“You’re stuck. Between who you were, who you pretend to be, and who you need to be.”

Emma’s eyes closed, the truth of it buckling her knees.

Her pussy throbbed. The memory so sharp: bent over a desk, skirt raised, white skin striped red, wetness flooding her.

She trembled, the need almost unbearable.

“What you lost,” Zoï whispered, closer now. “Not just discipline. Connection. Intimacy. Power. Trust.”

“Yes.” The word was raw. Emma broke, tears running silent and hot.

Zoï’s fingers stayed, cool and grounding, wiping tears away.

“Tell me about Sarah,” Zoï said softly.

Emma’s eyes snapped open. That name. How could Zoï know?

Zoï's strange silver eyes looked into hers. Through hers. Into places Emma had buried so deep she'd almost forgotten they existed.

Almost.