Page 17

Class Begins!

I ’m jittery all day while teaching my piano students because I know that each lesson I complete brings me closer to my first evening class.

My emotions fluctuate from “This is going to be the coolest thing I’ve done in my life!” to “What the hell am I thinking?”

I rush home after my final lesson and find a red envelope taped to my door. Wondering who it’s from, I pull it off and step inside my apartment before opening it.

I immediately recognize the embossed dragon on the letterhead because it’s the same one on the red doors at the hotel. I smile as I read the handwritten note:

Congratulations on being part of the first class at STC of New York.

May the weeks ahead expand your mind and empower your spirit.

We will speak soon,

~Anton

I’m touched by the thoughtful message. After not hearing a word from him since the night he let me play the piano, I’ve wondered if he forgot about our arrangement.

Encouraged by his note, I take a quick shower before changing into my uniform. After slipping the thong over the peek-a-boo tights for “easier access”, I zip up the skirt and cinch up the corset tight. Staring at myself in the mirror, I feel a bit uncomfortable looking so openly sexy and curvaceous, but…I have to admit I like what I see.

So I wink at the mirror and tell myself, “You’re going to knock ’em dead, Soph.”

Brimming with confidence on the drive there, the moment I pull up to the hotel, my nerves hit full force as soon as the valet walks up to my car.

I lower my window and smile timidly. “Hi, I’m a guest of Mr. Wallace’s.”

He nods and opens my door, handing me a yellow ticket when I give him the keys. “I’ll take it from here, miss. Have a good evening.”

I appreciate how courteous the staff is here, and it gives me the extra boost of confidence I need as I head into the hotel and go to the front desk.

I smile with relief when I see the same gentleman who tried to get me a room the night my car broke down. “Hello again, Miss Lane.”

Touched that he remembers me, I fumble through my purse to get my driver’s license. “I’m here to…” My mind suddenly goes blank, forgetting the words I’m supposed to say as I awkwardly thrust my driver’s license out to him.

He winks when he takes it from me. “Are you part of the Freshman Class attending tonight?”

I nod mutely.

“Perfect.” When he hands back my driver’s license, he informs me, “You’ll be staying in room 1069 tonight.”

There’s no turning back the moment I get in that elevator…

“Would you like me to write that down for you?”

I laugh nervously. “No, I got it.”

“Enjoy your first day, Miss Lane.”

“You, too!”

I blush a deep red as I hurry toward the elevator, embarrassed by my foolish response. A gentleman exiting the elevator gives me a respectful nod as I walk up to him. While I appreciate the quiet acknowledgment, I question why a little makeup, some heels, and a nice coat can change how others respond to a person.

Walking into the elevator, I hand the keycard to the staff member waiting there. “Room 1069, please.”

She slides my card and presses the button for the tenth floor. Before the elevator doors close, a man thrusts his arm out to stop them. He towers over me as he joins us, his formidable presence filling the small space.

I hold my breath as I stare at the man’s reflection in the mirrored walls. He’s a giant of a man with red hair and a trimmed mustache and beard.

“Lord Murray,” the woman says humbly with a slight bow of her head.

Instead of acknowledging her, the giant meets my gaze in the mirror. I instantly look down and don’t dare look up again, mortified to have been caught gawking at him. I’m going to earn a bad reputation if I don’t curb my curious nature pretty damn quick!

The moment the doors open again, Lord Murray exits the elevator and strides down the hallway. I step out after him and search for a sign to let me know which direction to go to find my room.

“Take a left, it’s halfway down the hall,” the woman says pleasantly.

“Thank you!” I call out before the doors close again.

Taking a deep breath, I walk down the hallway in the same direction as the giant. I’m terrified he might be one of the trainers, and breathe a sigh of relief when he turns down a corridor and disappears.

Standing in front of door 1069, I hesitate before opening the door, unsure what to expect. Turning the doorknob, I’m surprised to see a college classroom with several rows of tables and chairs already filled with students. All of whom are staring at me…

“Hello, Miss Lane.”

I walk into the room and turn my head to the man who addressed me. He’s an attractive older gentleman with gray sideburns and a mop of brown curls on his head. He looks vaguely familiar to me, but I can’t place how I know him.

On the whiteboard behind the man is his name, “Mr. Onassis.” Pronouncing his name the way it appears, I reply, “Hello, Mr. O-nas-sis.”

For some reason, the other students laugh.

“My name is pronounced O-nah-see,” he corrects me before instructing me to take a seat.

I nod, liking the sound of his name when I repeat it correctly. “Yes, Mr. Onassis.”

To avoid making any further blunders, I quickly unbutton my coat and hang it on a hook next to the others before sitting down at the empty table closest to the door.

Addressing the class, Mr. Onassis says, “While we wait for the last two students, I suggest you introduce yourself to the people at your table.”

Finding it humorous that I’ve chosen the only empty table, I turn in my chair so I can observe my fellow classmates while they talk amongst themselves.

I notice that many are dressed in outfits similar to mine, but their corsets are different. Some are made of leather, and each is a different color which complements the wearer.

The pale purple hair of a woman in the back catches my eye. She’s wearing bold eyeliner and has a butterfly tattoo on the side of her neck. Our eyes meet briefly, and she smiles before turning back to the man at her table.

I like her.

I hadn’t expected to see guys in the class, but it makes sense that being a submissive isn’t gender specific. The men are dressed in dark pants and unbuttoned dress shirts to expose their bare chests. I find their look just as alluring as our corsets.

I spot another woman with long brown hair who isn’t making eye contact with anyone at her table. I’m curious as to why she keeps glancing away from them. It seems like she isn’t interested in being part of her group.

She seems like a lone wolf.

There’s another girl who pulls out a small mirror while someone is speaking to her. She pouts her lips and nods as if she’s listening while she carefully reapplies her lipstick and gives herself an air kiss before putting the mirror away. I recognize her from the New Year’s Eve party and chuckle to myself.

She’s the Clueless girl!

I move my attention from her to the next table and catch one of the men checking me out. His shirt is open wide, and based solely on that ripped physique, it’s clear his nickname is Beefcake.

The door suddenly bursts open, and I turn my head to see a middle-aged woman rushing into the room. “Talk about cutting it close…” she mutters as she hangs up her coat and sits down at my table.

She looks up at Mr. Onassis apologetically.

“Although you are not technically late, Mrs. Adams, see that you arrive earlier in the future to avoid unanticipated delays.”

“Yes, sir!” she answers with more enthusiasm than called for.

I find it endearing.

When the large digital clock above the door displays 8:00 and a bell sounds, Mr. Onassis begins class by having each person state their name and a short description of their experience with BDSM. As the last one to arrive, Mrs. Adams gets to go first.

Turning to face the class, she grins. “My name is Michelle Adams. I’m a divorced mother of two teenagers, and I’ve read a lot of romance novels about BDSM. I totally identify with the whole submissive dynamic, and…what can I say?” She shrugs with a laugh. “It really turns me on. As a birthday present to myself, I signed up for this class. But I really didn’t expect to be accepted.” Turning to Mr. Onassis, she chortles, “Happy birthday to me!”

Mr. Onassis calls my name next.

I squirm in my chair as I look at the other students, suddenly feeling like an impostor. “Hey, everyone…I’m Sophie Lane. I don’t know a whole lot about BDSM, to be honest. But I’ve heard good things about this course, and I appreciate that it’s taught by experts, because there are a lot of things on that list we had to fill out that I’m eager to try.”

A woman with deep brown skin and a crown of tight curls smiles in response. I’m struck by her kind eyes and nickname her Velvet Eyes.

As I listen to everyone else share, it’s obvious that I am the least knowledgeable in the group. Still, many of the students here are at least somewhat new to the lifestyle while others have been in BDSM relationships and are here to increase their skills as submissives.

Once everyone has spoken, Mr. Onassis addresses the class. “We are going to cover different aspects of BDSM in the weeks ahead, and questions are not only welcomed, but expected from each of you.”

He makes eye contact with every student in the room when he says, “There is no shame in being unfamiliar with a topic or instrument. The only foolish question is the one that is never asked—”

The door opens again, interrupting his lesson, and a tiny woman with the cutest upturned nose glides into the room. She reminds me of a pixie. Shutting the door with a flourish, she turns to smile at all of us, soaking in our undivided attention.

“Ms. Foster,” Mr. Onassis states in a firm tone, “being late is a sign of disrespect to me, as well as your classmates, and it will not be tolerated. If you are late again, you will be cut from the program.”

I gasp. I had no idea we could be dropped from the class!

The newest student pouts her bottom lip and tilts her head at Mr. Onassis, saying in an overly sweet voice, “I’ll do better, I promise.”

“Promises mean nothing. Only actions matter, Ms. Foster. See to it that this doesn’t happen again.”

Seemingly unfazed by his warning, the girl hangs up her coat and sashays to the last seat available, which happens to be next to mine.

Mr. Onassis continues as if the disruption never happened. “All of you have come to this class with a differing level of knowledge. The beauty of this program is that you will learn from each other in the weeks ahead, regardless of your experience.”

He picks up a stack of notebooks and walks down the middle aisle, handing them out. “I expect you to take detailed notes in my class.”

One of the students holds up his iPad. “I won’t need one, Mr. Onassis.”

“You can put that away, Mr. Carlisle. Writing by hand is proven to aid in memory retention and understanding of the material.”

He then orders, “Put all electronic devices away. We do not want our time here to be wasted.”

I reluctantly remove my phone from the table. I had planned to record the lesson so I wouldn’t have to take notes.

Opening up the fresh notebook, I notice a pencil tucked inside the binding. Staring at those blank pages, I experience an unexpected thrill when I imagine it full of everything I’m going to learn over the coming six weeks.

Starting with the basics, Mr. Onassis begins by telling us, “BDSM centers on the idea that all play is safe, sane, and consensual. To encourage that, the Dominant and submissive establish a safeword when they scene together. Some of the most commonly used are the colors—‘red’, ‘yellow’, and ‘green’. However, any agreed-upon word will suffice.”

Velvet Eyes raises her hand.

“Yes, Miss Robinson?”

“How do safewords help?”

“Excellent question. Think of it as a verbal safety net.” Mr. Onassis writes “Common safewords” on his interactive whiteboard. Under that, he lists the three colors and clarifies, “‘Green’ indicates that things are going well and you want them to continue. ‘Yellow’ lets your partner know to slow down or lighten the intensity. ‘Red’, on the other hand, stops the scene instantly. By having an established safeword, it allows both parties to end a scene immediately without any questions.”

I diligently write down his examples, grateful that she asked. I suddenly recall what Brianna said about the submissive ultimately holding the power in the BDSM dynamic, and smile.

Now it’s all starting to make sense…

Mr. Onassis writes the word “Subspace” on his whiteboard and asks, “Who has heard of this term?”

Only two of us fail to raise our hands.

“Subspace refers to an almost dreamlike state that many submissives experience during a challenging scene. Different types of ‘play’ can pump endorphins into the bloodstream, causing the person to experience a euphoric high.”

The way he describes subspace makes it sound like an out-of-body experience, and I can’t imagine it.

But I feel a sense of dread when he adds, “In that state, the Dominant must be extra vigilant because it can become so intense that some submissives become incapable of verbal communication. They are completely dependent on their Dominant during the scene and will require aftercare once it’s over.”

What he says next sends shivers down my spine. “As you can imagine, a high level of trust is required between both partners during subspace.”

There’s no way I could trust anyone in that helpless state. It sounds even more terrifying than being tied up.

No thank you!

I scribble in my notes, Avoid subspace at all costs , and I even underline it twice.

“Do any of you have other questions for me?” Mr. Onassis asks the class.

The romance bookworm pops her hand up beside me.

“Yes, Mrs. Adams?”

“What about contracts?”

I notice a slight smile on his face when he answers, “Normally, a contract is part of a fantasy scene, much like a prop. It can be erotic for both partners to sign a document entitling one partner to exclusive rights over the other person’s body and will. Although very few people who practice BDSM use one because communication is a key component, a contract can act as a useful guide for documenting pertinent information for both partners involved.”

Mr. Onassis walks to the back of the classroom, glances at the notebook of the lone wolf, and states in a quiet tone, “See me after class, Miss Diaz.”

Without missing a beat, he continues the lesson. “Think of a contract as a reference sheet for everyone involved. However, it is important to note that a BDSM contract is not a legal document.”

Glancing up at the clock, he ends our lesson. “It’s time for your first practicum. Please leave your notebooks here and proceed to room 1008.”

I slowly close my notebook and watch the others as they start to file out of the room.

What is a practicum?