Look but Don't Touch

Warning:
This story contains scenes of an explicit, erotic nature and is intended for adults, 18+. Characters portrayed are 18 or older. If you're interested in the BDSM lifestyle in any form, please tread carefully, and don’t dive in head first. Research, research, research. And reach out to people with experience for guidance.

*

Special thanks to Lisa, L.J., and Mary.

*

Nicholas
Ford

Reentering my bedroom after taking a shower, I walk into my closet and pick out what to wear
to the club tonight.

I can hear Amanda
in the kitchen, slamming cupboards and pulling out pans with way too much force. She has no reason to be upset, in my opinion. I told her countless times I would be unable to spend time with her family tonight, yet when today arrived, she thought I was "tactless" if I didn’t go with her.

Personally, I don’t see the issue. I will meet her family tomorrow at her sister's wedding; she can go to the rehearsal dinner by herself. I'd go with her, obviously, if I hadn't had this event planned for months. Alas, I do, and Amanda has known for weeks. Whatever she is doing in the kitchen is just an attempt to gain attention, seein
g as the rehearsal dinner is only an hour away. Less than that, even.

It'
s at times like these that I wonder if I really should have listened to my parents and sisters, because I'm miserable here. At the age of thirty-six, I'm supposed to have settled down, according to them. But it's not easy to find someone who both shares my desires
and
wants more beyond the fetish. So…I squashed it all down, hid parts of myself, and said yes when Amanda asked me out four months ago.

She'd been at one of my six clubs in the Bay Area, and I'd had it with my mother's incessant talk about leaving bachelorhood behind. Little does she know that I was never really a bachelor. I've had my fair share of long-term relationships, though they were always about pleasure, not love.

After zipping my jeans, I grab a white button-down and put it on. The two top buttons are left unbuttoned, and I forgo the tie. I don’t need a suit to ooze power. Had I been on my way to any of my other clubs—a more upscale place—perhaps I would've worn one, but not for Switch—my one BDSM club.

O
n a night like this, I need to feel comfortable too, which is kind of ironic. Since leaving that lifestyle behind, tonight's event will most definitely leave me
uncomfortable
.

I suppose I'm a glutton for punishment, but I'm aching to at least watch. Sure, making an appearance is important; however, I can't deny that I
want
to be there. It's the only aspect of my old life I have left, and I find myself clinging to it desperately.

Amanda knows about the club, though she has no clue I frequent the establishment, much less that I
've lived that life. To her, I'm simply an owner of multiple different-themed clubs who focuses solely on the money. If a BDSM club brings in a lot of it, I should have one. Well, let her think that. Let her also continue believing I will be at a different club tonight than Switch. It would only raise questions, not to mention she'd show her distaste for BDSM. She's shown it before. It's degrading, she says, proving how little she actually knows.

A while later, I'm back in my
bathroom. My dark hair is only a couple inches long, so there's nothing to do there. I run my fingers through it and mess it up a little. Leaning closer to the mirror, I inspect my freshly shaved face, and I can't help but grimace. To my dismay, my age is beginning to show. A few grey hairs at my temples. The corners of my bluish grey eyes crinkle a bit more than before when I smile. Though, I frown more than smile nowadays. My body may be in excellent condition, but that matters little when I'm barely content. I stand tall at 6'4", yet I feel hunched.

Hopefully, I will be in good spirits after tonight.
I just need a dose of what my past used to offer. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

Truth be told, I'm not a hundred percent sure
I would trade what I have today for what I used to have, because I wasn’t particularly happy back then, either. In the past three years or so, something has been missing. There's nothing I want more than to settle down with someone I have a deeper connection with, and that’s what I'm trying to achieve with Amanda. She is a beautiful woman, same age as me, and we share many interests—just not the one I can't seem to let go of.

In other words, the seed of doubt has started to grow. I've become more resigned tha
n anything about my chosen path, and I've started spending more and more nights at Switch than I used to.

"Nick!" Amanda calls from the kitchen. I sigh to myself and ste
p away from the mirror. "Are you ready to go?" She appears in the doorway to my bathroom, her blond hair bouncing lightly with her movements. "You're so handsome." There's a small smile on her lips, but I can see she's still upset.

"And you
look pretty," I reply automatically as I fasten my watch.

Amanda is already tall at 5'10
", but with those heels, she looks even taller. Unnecessary if you ask me. Then again, I'm more into delicate ballet flats when it comes to girls—
women
. In my past, I've been very involved in what my Little Girls have worn, and now it feels odd to only offer an opinion. Not only that, but it has to be complimentary. Now, in an extremely revealing blue dress, Amanda does look attractive; it's just not something I would've chosen for her. Or the blood-red nail polish. Because I don’t go for bold colors when there are pastels. The black thong she put on earlier is another item I wouldn’t have picked out.

I want soft cotton, coy smiles, adorable giggles, a round little bottom, baby smooth skin, pigtails, pert tits, and pleas for Daddy's thick cock.

I almost have to close my eyes and take calming breaths to rein it in.

"So, are you ready to go?" she asks aga
in, tapping her foot. "We could share a cab."

I shake my head no and roll up the sleeves on my shirt. "I'm not drinking tonight, so I'm driving. If you want, I can drop you off at the hotel."

"Sounds good," she agrees, and we leave the bathroom. "By the way, we still need to talk more about my moving in here."

T
his again
.

"I've already told you I think it's too soon," I point out impatiently. She is here all the time, and I don’t mind it—much. The ad agency she runs is just a five-minute walk from here, so I see the convenience. Still, moving in together is a
big
step. One I'm far from ready for.

"Too soon," she scoffs. "Be serious, Nick. It's time. We're not getting any younger."

"So, that means we should rush into things?" I ask incredulously. I shake my head, refusing to get sucked into this now. "You know what? I don’t have time for this. Let's go."

"Fine," she grits out. "But we're talking about it tomorrow.
We need to move forward, not take steps backward."

I
pretend I don’t hear that and walk toward the hallway, wondering how long I can take this—the faking, the pretending everything is okay. Because while we've exchanged "I love you"s, I'm not there, if I'm being completely honest with myself. I care for her; I enjoy spending time with her, she's good in bed—albeit a little too demanding for my tastes—and I've agreed to meet her family, but I'm struggling to feel something more, something deeper.

"Are you even listening to me, Nick?!" Anger's evident in her voice as she calls from behind me. "I won't be ignored!"

Tensing my jaw, I turn around and speak through clenched teeth. "We will
not
discuss this now, Amanda. Are we clear on that?"

A huff is what I get in return.

*

About fifteen minutes later, we're on our way in my black Mercedes, and
while the silence is fine by me, it's not for Amanda. I'm still irritated beyond words about her previous behavior in the apartment, yet she starts yapping about her family as if we didn’t just have an argument.

Perhaps it's the excitement of seeing her family again
that makes her forget the past half hour, so that means I have to listen to her going on and on. Only her sister and she live here in San Francisco; the rest reside in Oregon. But everyone is down for Amber's wedding tomorrow, including uncles, aunts, cousins, countless nieces and nephews, parents, and grandparents. It will be the first time I meet any of them.

"…bu
t we call her 'Drifter'." Amanda chuckles wryly about another cousin of hers. "I swear, that girl is always on the move. Last I heard, she lived in Florida." She sighs and looks out the window. "We can only hope she won't make another spectacle. Last time we all got together, she stormed out, caused a scene, just because we didn’t agree on something. So immature." 

I hum in acknowledgement, pretending to listen, and stop at a red light. I can't help it, really, but my mind is occupied with thoughts about tonight—and
not
Amanda's night. We have themed events at Switch every month, but it's been a long time since that theme was Daddy/Little Girl. The closest we've come recently was a few months ago when Fetish Night was about spanking, and many Daddies showed up with their little ones.

When I enter my club, it's buzzing with anticipation. I'm relieved, feeling like this is a place where I can finally let go and be myself. I greet several friends and acquaintances on the way, and I try to keep my eyes off the submissives, many of them wearing frilly dresses or just skimpy underthings. Looking is obviously allowed, but just being here is tempting enough. If I were smart, I'd stay out here near the lobby, or maybe even hide out upstairs in my office, but I can't resist.

It would be easy to cave; after all, there are single people here, too—Little Girls
and Daddy Doms looking for a new relationship, and I have had my fair share of offers—but then I'd be back at square one.

The club area, square-shaped
with high ceilings and kept deliberately dark, is simply furnished, the only decoration being erotic photos on the walls. To my right as I walk in, there's a seating area with tables and barstools; the bar is next. After that, there is a platform for public scening. Contraptions such as a St. Andrew's Cross, benches, a leather sling, and suspension bars take up most of the space, but glass cabinets with floggers, crops, whips, cuffs, paddles, and other toys are on display, too. The wall across from me, as well as the one to my left, is lined with black leather booths. My office sits above it all. Through the clear windows I have a perfect view of the whole place but most importantly the scening area.

Heading over to the bar, I say hello to Mark—one of my bartenders
and a close friend—and order a glass of tonic water with lime. We talk a little while I survey the club, and he mentions that his divorce has been finalized—at last—but I know he's not fond of delving deeper into the subject, so I let it go. For now.

The rock music playing is loud, though not so loud that you
have to shout to be heard, and I smile, satisfied with the large crowd. The dance floor may be pretty empty, but this isn't a night for dancing anyway. The booths are full, and a few groups of people have already gathered near the scening area.

My club is sex. Everyone is here for pleasure and learning more about pleasure. While penetration isn't permitted unless you're doing a scene,
basically everything else is allowed—not counting edgeplay activities like fire play, blood play, and asphyxiation. But we're a creative bunch of people. In one booth, for instance, it's very clear that one Dom/Daddy is being serviced by his little one who's under the table. Another couple, standing in a corner, is definitely up to something, as well.