The White Queen: Chapter 1
London, England
~ Mary ~
“Oh-My-God what is that?” Kay nervously asks as she moves to stand next to me.
“W-T-F?” Breathes Vicky from my other side.
Anxiety is coming off my two companions in waves, as I survey the large room with a mixture of excitement, anticipation, and fascination. It is like something straight out of the pages of one of my favorite books, yet completely different and like nothing I could have ever imagined.
“It's a Saint Andrew's Cross,” I reply calmly, grinning broadly at their reactions.
“How the hell do you know that?” Vicky hisses, looking at me like we have just met.
“I read,” I reply flatly, still soaking in the experience of being in a real BDSM club for the first time.
Lately, I have felt as if my friends don’t know the person I have become. The three of us were inseparable years ago in college, not to say that they haven’t, but I have certainly changed. They are too wrapped up in themselves to notice. I wonder if they have always acted like this like this, or am I just now seeing it.
All in our late 20s we are long way from the homesick college students, all from small towns, we were when we met. This trip has highlighted just how varying the paths we have taken are.
Kay is a leggy blonde with a bright future as a plastic surgeon and Vicky is a voluptuous redhead who's selling multimillion-dollar real estate. For someone who loves books and to read, I have the dream job of a librarian. Although, I am not sure the books I read are on our shelves.
Tonight is the third night in a row that we’ve done a pub crawl through London. I enjoyed myself the first night, but that was enough of a good thing for me. It all comes down to trust. When you don’t trust the people you’re with to look out for you, it’s hard to relax and have a good time.
Truthfully, I have felt gained up on since the three of us embarked on this trip. Before we even left the hotel tonight Vicky and Kay were giving me shit. First, it was my choice of outfit, then it was my choice of handbag. Apparently, my crossbody bag is too large and inappropriate for bar hopping. Yet they didn't mind asking me to carry their cell phones.
As we entered the last crowded pub I had asked Vicky, “Have you ever stopped to think that this isn’t my idea of “fun”?”
“You really are turning into a librarian,” She’d said disdainfully.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“She just means you should ditch the cardigans and lose up,” Kay had added before turning away scope out our surroundings. Or more accurately to choose her new target.
I don’t own that many cardigans, just a few in my favorite colors: black, purple, brown, green, red, and a pretty floral one too. Okay, I may have more than several, but they are the perfect wardrobe accessory you can’t have too many. Some people don’t like walking around half-naked.
At the first pub we visited tonight they met two guys who plied them cheap beer, and they pretty much ignore me all together. They only spoke to me, as a way to try and make my friends jealous or to seem less obvious about their blatant interest. I’ve felt like the third wheel or rather in this case the fifth wheel ever since.
At one point, I wondered if anyone would notice if I took out and read on my phone. I would have much rather spent quality time with my fictional book boyfriend, Same, than these two average-looking Brits. Their accents may be hot —and I may be a bitch for saying—the rest not so much. They are gangly, sweaty, unwashed, and in need of a dermatologist.
After several glasses or pints, just when I was wondering if I should have stayed in with room service—sucking it up and dealing with Vicky and Kay’s remarks—they guys suggested we check out a members-only club. It was having an open house for prospective member tonight. At first, I wanted to end the night and head back to the hotel. Then they said the magic word, BDSM.
After walking several blocks, I have found myself standing outside of the The White Queen. From the outside, it looks like any other English pub we have seen here in London. The flickering gas lamps, the large glass windows covered with colorful advertisements, and the weathered sign next to the door—give no hint of what is hiding behind the door.
I was anxious to see what was beyond the door. Having spent so much time in fictional BDSM clubs, I couldn’t wait to see the reality. In my excitement, I was the first one over the threshold. It could have been the stupidest thing I’d ever done. Knowingly entering a London BDSM club.
My friends didn’t know what that exactly entailed, but I’ve read enough romance novels and spent enough time with my friend Google not to be ignorant. If I had been feeling generous, I would have warned them about what they were going to see—I wasn’t.
This has been the trip from hell. Being a tourist with two whiny drunk and then hungover women is less than desirable. I should have locked them in the Tower yesterday.
But then I wouldn’t be here right now. Standing inside of a BDSM club for the first time. My whole body is tingling with anticipation. I wonder if this is how Alice felt when she went down the rabbit hole, nervous, excited and even a little aroused at the unknown.
From the street we enter into a large breezeway. The left side is lined with worn wooden benches. On the right, there is an archway with the words “Changing Rooms” above it.
“Welcome to The White Queen, my name is Sarah. If you have any questions, I’ll be here all evening.” The elegant blonde, sitting behind a podium, says handing me a glossy pamphlet. She was dressed surprisingly conservatively, in a black pantsuit with her hair twisted into a tight bun. Standing next to her is a large guard dog-like man. He’s wearing a tight black The White Queen t-shirt, and his keen eyes are assessing everyone who passes by.
“The Dungeon and public areas are closed this evening to scening, but you’re welcome to look around at what we have to offer,” she continues with a smile, as the guard opens the door for us to enter.
I hear Kay whisper “Dungeon?” nervously from behind me, and I can’t help but smile. Have I mentioned that I can be a bitch?
As we enter the main room, I stop and take in my surroundings. The bar is to one side against the wall. Behind it is a wall of mirrors, which reflect several Saint Andrew’s crosses, spanking benches, and stockades that line the opposite wall. Red ropes are closing off the areas and no one is scening in the public viewing areas. Several imposing men stand near the equipment, not allowing patrons to get near them. I have a feeling this open house is strictly a look but don’t touch, or rather don’t play event. Coming to this conclusion relies me, and I realize how nervous I had actually been walking through the door. It is one thing to read a description of them on the page, but I’m not sure if I could handle seeing scenes being acted out publicly.
Everyone looks surprisingly fully clothed as well. In an ironic twist, my friends seem to have the least amount of clothing on. Their short skintight dresses leave nothing to the imagination. My outfit, that Kay and Vicky were so disdainful of, seems to fit in with the relaxed atmosphere. I am wearing a pair of tight black jeans, sensible ballet flats, an amazing pushup bra with a low scoop neck top, and a matching cardigan.
There is a dance floor in the middle of the room, and the music playing throughout is not overly loud. You can hear yourself think and what the person next to you is saying. I imagine that’s important if you’re trying to vocalize your safeword during a scene. The room is oddly really well-lit as well, with bright canister lights hanging from the ceiling. There are also spotlights above the various sceneing stations, illuminating them.
Group of well-loved brown leather chairs with low tables are scattered around the entire pub. I never imagined that a BDSM club could have such a relaxed comfortable feel to it. Almost like you’re in someone's living room. If they had a spanking bench in one corner.
The place is pretty crowded with people dancing, lounging on couches socializing, at the bar, or walking around taking in the various pieces of equipment.
In the far corner of the room I spot an archway and above it hangs a sign that says Dungeon. Several people walk through it, coming into and out of the main room. From the literature I quickly scan, that is where the private sceneing rooms are.
One of the guys says “Let’s dance” and takes Kay’s hand and begins to drag her towards the dance floor.
“I’m going to the bar,” I say, reaching into my bag I take out their cellphones. Tossing them at my friends I say, “In case you need to call me.”
“Okay, we’ll see you later,” Vicky giggles, as her guy grabs her in a fireman's hold and carries her onto the dance floor.
I could care less about what they decide to do, I am going to enjoy my night’s unexpected turn of events and take advantage of being here. Heading to the bar, I order myself a coffee with Bailey’s from the cute bartender who has a head of gorgeous wavy black hair.
With my drink in hand, I take my time as I head back towards the sceneing equipment on the opposite side of the room—taking everything in. No amount of reading has prepared me to be here. It’s one thing to read about spanking benches, stockades, and crosses in my novels. It’s another to be standing in an actual BDSM club surrounded by everything you’ve only ever imagined or seen photos of.
Stopping in front of the Saint Andrew’s Cross, I can’t help but recall all of the scenes I’ve read where the heroine has been bound to the device while the hero tortures her with pleasure. I shiver with anticipation at the the thought.
Slowly I continue to make my way around the room, stopping and studying each of the pieces of equipment. Conjuring up images from the stories I’ve read. Becoming more and more aroused.
I giggle when I notice that there are vintage posters on the walls advocating safe sex, as well as several candy dispensers with free condoms. Hand sanitizer stations are stuck onto the wall at intervals as well. It would seem that someone takes hygiene seriously.
After my tour around the first floor, I’m not ready for the dungeon, I end up back at the bar. Hopping up onto a barstool I continue to sip my drink and taking out my phone I settle back into re-reading one of my favorite BDSM books. It seems appropriate to read a novel based in a BDSM club while sitting at a bar in one. And certainly adds some excitement.
“Mary Goodwin?”
Author's Note:
Are you enjoying the story so far? Who could Mary possibly run into in a London BDSM club?