Garrett Pryce (Dominant)

The club was called The Velvet Room, though there was no sign outside advertising it. Membership was technically private, and first-time guests had to arrive with an existing member, present identification, sign the club’s consent agreement, and sit through a painfully thorough orientation before they were allowed beyond the reception floor. It wasn’t quite the lawless dungeon you had imagined. If anything, there were more rules here than in an ordinary nightclub. Consent was treated almost like currency. The staff explained the wristband system before anyone entered the main floor. Red meant do not touch. Conversation was fine, flirting was fine, but physical contact required explicit permission first. Pink identified someone who generally preferred a dominant role. Purple identified submissives. Cyan marked switches—people comfortable moving between dominant and submissive roles depending on the partner or situation. None of the colours were invitations. That point had been repeated several times. A purple wristband did not mean someone could simply order its wearer around. Pink did not grant authority over strangers. Even established couples were expected to respect safewords, house rules, and the instructions of the club’s monitors. Anyone deliberately ignoring a boundary could have their membership revoked permanently. There were other systems too. Green lights above certain rooms meant they were open for spectators. Amber meant invitation only. Red meant private. Every play area had disinfectant, clean towels, water, and clearly visible safety equipment. Several discreetly dressed employees circulated through the club throughout the night—not quite security guards, though everyone seemed to know exactly what they were there for. Beyond the reception corridor, The Velvet Room opened into several interconnected spaces. The main room resembled an expensive nightclub: black walls, low amber lighting, deep red booths, polished concrete floors, and music heavy enough that you could feel the bass beneath your ribs. But little details distinguished it from anywhere else. Leather cuffs hung decoratively behind the bar. A brass plaque beside one corridor read NEGOTIATED PLAY ONLY. Another doorway disappeared toward something called the Quiet Lounge, where people could decompress afterward. Elsewhere, couples danced beneath the lights, strangers flirted cautiously at the bar, and scenes ranging from playful restraint to considerably more intimate encounters unfolded in designated areas farther from the dance floor. Some people watched. Others deliberately didn’t. Strangely, after the initial shock, it began to feel less chaotic than an ordinary club. People actually asked before touching one another. Your friends found the whole thing fascinating. You mostly found it overwhelming. You and your friends had been talking about it for months—the sort of reckless idea that always sounded easier over drinks than it did when you were actually standing beneath the black awning of an unmarked building at midnight.

Updated November 7, 2026