Clicking through a few of the pages—About Us, BDSM, FAQ, Gallery, Blog—he learns that the Menagerie is a members-only club that allows its patrons to use their facility and equipment and even book sessions with on staff dominants or submissives.

The gallery shows him the wide variety of rooms available to rent in the club, including a classroom, medieval dungeon, doctor’s office, and other themed rooms in addition to multiple standard ones like the one he’d been in yesterday.

Finally, he clicks on the Contact page. The address, hours of operation, and social media handles are all there, along with various pride flags and the words Safe Space for All, but what really catches Rowan’s eye is the blank contact form.

Drop us a line.

Rowan doesn’t think twice before filling out his name and email address and typing a quick message.

Hi,

I’m interested in becoming a member. Can you send more info, please?

Thanks,

Rowan C.

He hits Send before he can think better of it. Takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, mentally going through his emotional checklist to make sure the impulsive decision isn’t a sign of an impending depressive episode. And he isn’t irritated, isn’t antsy, isn’t out of his mind horny—he’s okay. His eyes flick to the pill box on his nightstand, Tuesday a.m. and p.m. boxes both empty.

He’s okay.

He clicks through a few more pages on the website, reading the latest blog entry and looking at the extensive BDSM educational references. By the time he finds himself reading an article on the best kinds of knots to use for a full-body shibari rig, it’s well past midnight.

Fuck.

He has to work in the morning. He closes his laptop, climbs into bed, and tries not to think too hard about how long he’ll have to wait for a reply.

But as he’s lying there, staring up at the blackness of his ceiling, lit in stripes by the faint blue moonlight shining around the edges of his curtains, he’s reminded of the lights in the club and feels the familiar trickle of heat low in his belly.

Feels his cock start to harden as images of strong thighs and sinfully curving spines race through his mind. His legs spread on their own, hips hitching up a fraction of an inch to get any amount of friction on his cock.

He wills himself to calm down because he has to be up in less than five hours, but he’s never been good at denying himself pleasure.

More thoughts flood his mind, each making him breathe a little faster, a little shallower. Sweat-slicked skin. Ragged breaths. A warm mouth. A clenching hole. A hand around a throat.