And Silence Afterwards

Chapter 1

The general public might be unaware of that, but the main sadistic feature in kinky clubs is almost always the queue to the wardrobe. Noisy, unorganized, angry at the poor staff or volunteers who never seem to cope with the influx of clientele. Maybe there's a purpose to it, so that everyone starts being tortured right at the entrance.

It certainly works on him, especially because, in addition to a bunch of irritated people talking loudly, all at the same time, he can hear Here Come the Drums throbbing through the sound system somewhere in the depths of The Valiant, as if it's the best accompaniment for BDSM practices. He sighs, knowing full well who must be in charge of music tonight.

Having got rid of his brown Alcantara coat, he finally goes in. There's actually another trial that can be compared with queuing in its unpleasantness—the face control, kinky police of sorts. But fortunately, it's a test he's always sure to pass, although not because he meets the requirements. All visitors are expected to wear something BDSM-themed, not to ruin the atmosphere—black leather pants, spiky collars, that kind of stuff. But he's an exception, one of the few who can slip through security in an ordinary suit.

Behind his back, someone complains about him being let in, even though he's not dressed up for the occasion, but gets a rather tetchy reply that he's a regular. Which he is indeed, and one with a good reputation, as much as the word 'good' can be relatable to what he's doing here.

It's left unsaid, but his privilege is also due to the benefit of knowing the owner of the club. Not biblically, and not very closely, but still.

Speaking of which... As he enters the main hall, another cheerful song starts playing, drowning the usual noises—the swish and slaps of leather, the clink of chains, and somewhat theatrical gasps—and he heads to the source of the blasting sound first. To say hello at least if not to complain about the audio effects, although maybe he will, no matter how futile it is.

He's got more or less warm by now, which is probably the only good thing about the queuing ordeal: his coat is too thin for the winter weather and he's constantly freezing, but it'll have to do for a while, given the state of his finances. Inside, it's almost hot—an invitation for everyone to get naked. The place is heaving with people, so it will get even stuffier. In a while, he'll take off his jacket and shirt, wrap up the sleeves of the undershirt he's wearing as an extra layer for warmth, and will look less like a half-frozen lanky alien in a pinstripe suit and more like a Dom he's known to be.

Some people greet him on the way as he proceeds past spanking benches, already partly occupied, a set of stocks, and an X-frame with restraints. It still baffles him how he's managed to become a celebrity of sorts.

At the club, he's known as the Doctor because everyone prefers to don an alias in places like this, just like they put on carnival gear. It's both funny and not that on a spur of the moment, when he'd been asked how one should address him, he'd chosen a dead name for himself, so to speak, because he has nothing to do with healing people, not anymore. Maybe he should have gone with his real one instead. 'John Smith' would have sounded just as made-up. On the other hand, the Doctor persona fits with his role: being an authority, but more for the sake of someone else's needs rather than his own. He's getting used to calling himself that. So the Doctor he is. As a penance, perhaps. A reminder, which may be an unhealthy kind of masochism that has nothing to do with 'safe and sane' BDSM.

It's also both funny and not that he'd entered the kinky world pretty much by accident—it had been one of his last adventures with Rose. They'd used to go to all kinds of strange places together, on a whim; it had felt very much like exploring different worlds. Rose had lured him to that bondage master-class and had a laugh fumbling with ropes, but he'd unexpectedly turned out to be a decent rigger. Maybe because he'd always needed manual dexterity—dealing with medical instruments once, and now with tools. You'd hardly be able to repair a vintage fob watch if you're not deft enough.