After she agreed to his compromise, he turned the conversation toward the coming weekend.
“How would you like to join me Saturday night?” he asked.
“At the club?”
“Yes.”
“As your submissive?”
“As my guest and submissive-in-training . . . and because I’m dying to see you again.”
She was dying to see him too. Because she still didn’t know what he looked like, which put her at a disadvantage since he’d seen her at the Met.
“What will be expected of me?”
Did he plan on initiating her by stripping her down in front of the other members and showing her off? Would he tell her to blow him in front of a group of onlookers?
More importantly, why did those thoughts send a pulse of heat through her core?
“Think of it as a sort of orientation,” he said. “You would have to sign a nondisclosure agreement, of course.”
“Of course.” She knew that what went on in the club stayed in the club and that NDAs were common protocol.
“And you should know that, as your sponsor, your behavior will reflect directly on me, so I expect nothing but complete adherence to club rules.”
“Which are?”
“I’ll email them to you.” He paused. “So, is that a yes?”
This was what she had signed up for, wasn’t it? All the leather, domination, and bondage she could ever want. If she hadn’t wanted to go to the club with him, she wouldn’t have agreed to more.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll have a car pick you up. Be ready by eight.”
A car? He wouldn’t pick her up himself?
“What should I wear?”
“I’ll take care of that. I’ll send my stylist to your apartment tomorrow night to take your measurements and make sure you have appropriate attire.”
“But what if I don’t—”
“I will send you something to wear, Jenna. And you will wear it. No questions asked.”
Her mouth fell open at his commanding tone and the way it provoked her pulse into a higher gear. She bit her lip and took a shaky breath. Sir Warren excited her, especially now that she’d felt his touch.
“Yes, sir,” she said. He had made it clear three weeks ago during one of their first phone calls that when he took on the role of Dom, she was to call him Sir or Master. Now felt like one of those times.
“Very good.” He paused as if giving her a moment to consider the implications of disobedience. “When it comes to the club, you will do as I say. You will follow my orders to the letter and defer to my judgment. Is that clear?”
She recognized his Dom voice from their many phone conversations. He spoke more authoritatively and crisply when using his Dom voice, as if he were an army general commanding his troops.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then my stylist will be there tomorrow, you will give her what she needs, and I will send you something to wear. And I want you to get some rest. A sub’s first time at the club can be a little . . . overwhelming.”
“Even for me?” After all, BDSM and sex clubs were what she wrote about. She’d seen a lot of pictures and had read a lot of accounts of what to expect. Surely that gave her a leg up.
“Reading and writing about BDSM is not the same as experiencing it. That’s like saying someone can learn karate from pictures in a book. Pictures only show so much. It’s the firsthand experience and one-to-one teaching that create mastery.
“Seeing what goes on at the club is daunting for a first-timer, even one as knowledgeable as you. I’ve seen virgin subs go in on an adrenaline rush, knowing full well what to expect, then crash before the night was over or a few days later after the high wore off.”
Jenna had read about submissives coming down hard after a scene. And with Warren driving the point home so firmly, maybe she should rethink her approach and schedule Sunday as a day off from writing so she could nurture herself instead of power through. She could pick up some nourishing soup and a few comfort foods from the market down the block and lounge on the couch watching movies, napping, and reading books all day.
“A couple of years ago,” Warren said, continuing without missing a beat, “one of the other Doms brought in a virgin sub who came down so hard after she went home that she got sick and ended up missing two days of work.”
Someone had actually gotten sick from their first experience at the club? Wow. Jenna wasn’t sure whether to be scared or even more excited.
As if he realized he might have just scared her, even if only a little, he quickly added, “But I don’t want you to worry about that. I’ll stay with you afterward to make sure you’re okay, then follow up with you over the next few days. I’ll want to make sure you’re processing everything without any problems.”
In the end, she had done as he’d asked. She had tolerated being measured and sized by his stylist—an elegantly coiffed and exotically beautiful Indian woman named Juti—went to bed an hour earlier both Thursday and Friday, then spent Saturday on pins and needles waiting for five o’clock. That was when Warren had told her that she could expect his assistant to come by with her outfit.
And right on time, a few minutes before five, an attractive blonde wearing a beige tweed skirt suit with a rose-colored blouse showed up at her apartment with a large Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag.
“I’m Francis,” she said, her voice melodic but firm. “Mr. Donovan’s assistant.”
“Mr. Donovan?” Jenna asked.
Warren still hadn’t told her his last name, even though she had given him hers on the contract she’d signed and emailed back to him Thursday morning before making herself a copy and overnighting him the original.
Had Francis just slipped and let the cat out of the bag?
Francis smiled as if realizig her faux pas. “Warren.”
So, Donovan was Warren’s last name. Why did that sound
