Free Sweet and Dirty by Christina Crooks

Between those and the dim lighting of the Cage Room she could see his agitation. He held something in his hand.
    He blinked when he saw her brandishing the whip. Plucking it deftly from her grip, he said, “You were worried for me. Thank you.” He touched her cheek. “I’m not used to people worrying about me.”
    She imagined he wasn’t. He looked capable of handling anything.
    He hefted a chunk of cement cinderblock, held it sideways so she could clearly read the spray-painted words. “Someone threw this through the stained-glass window.”
    “‘Pornographer’…?”
    He turned it until the offending word faced the floor. He said nothing.
    “Who did this?”
    Ro shrugged. “Good question.”
    “Someone who doesn’t approve of your business….”
    “Yes.”
    “…and someone who thinks you’re a pornographer.” A horrible thought occurred to her.
    Tracking it, he frowned. “No. I’m not a pornographer.”
    Lizbeth felt chastened by the disappointment in his voice.
    He continued with dignity. “I run a fetish nightclub. A well-organized, clean, and highly supervised club for consenting adults.”
    “Of course you do. I know that.” She stared at the hunk of cement. “Aren’t you going to call the police?”
    Ro laughed, a cynical sound. “Not this time. I did a few weeks ago. I asked them to clear some noisy transients from the alley—you know, next to the sidewalk where the line forms. When the cops showed up and saw some people in bondage gear, they didn’t bother. They called The Dungeon a titty bar to my face. Said it attracts trash.” A small facial tic twitched next to Ro’s eye. “They didn’t clear the transients. I doubt they’d try real hard to find the vandal, seeing as how they share his sentiments.”
    “They can’t just—”
    “They can. They have. It baffles me how ignorance can flourish to the point where peace officers don’t do their jobs. I could pursue it—it wouldn’t be difficult to bring a lawsuit—but that’s not my bag anymore. This stupid vandalism, it’s not what’s important.”
    Ro set the cement down. “I haven’t given you anything close to proper aftercare.” He enfolded her in a comforting bear hug. “Mostly because I hadn’t planned on ending the scene quite so abruptly.”
    Lizbeth enjoyed the bass vibration of his voice. She felt enclosed and safe in his arms, which seemed contradictory: he’d been the one hitting her. And then having sex with her. Emotions swirled through her: deep shame, undampened lust, vulnerability, fascination. The pain hadn’t really hurt. Well, it had, but it had gone deeper than that. Deeper and sweeter. She’d felt so wonderful, euphoric and floaty, and then it had all crashed. Literally. “Aftercare,” she murmured, snuggling into him, needing the comfort. She felt his warm exhalation against her hair. “I like aftercare.”
    “Most submissives do.”
    She stiffened against him. His words had been like icy water poured over her. “I’m not submissive.” She stepped away.
    Ro looked pained. “You’re magnificent. Brave. Assertive.” He reached for her, but she dodged his grasp. His eyes telegraphed his disapproval. His disappointment. And…his hurt?
    She hated hurting him. It surprised her, how much she hated it. But she hated what he’d said more. “You called me submissive.”
    “Lizbeth. You are an amazing woman. Responsive and sensual.” He made a small movement of his shoulders that was almost a shrug. “You took what you wanted, didn’t you?”
    “Yes…”
    “You don’t feel regrets?”
    “No. But you called me—”
    “I call you my fantasy come to life.” He was looking into her eyes when he said it. She could see the truth of his words. Her heart fluttered pleasurably. “Am I? That’s nice.”
    Ro’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Nice? I practically call you a goddess, and you say I’m ‘nice.’ Wonderful.”
    They gazed at each other. She felt the pull of him.