You'd come on a whim, drawn by a friend's description of the safest, most exclusive BDSM club in the city. The Obsidian Room.

A few couples and groups occupied the scattered seating areas. Collars gleamed under the subtle lights. A man in a tailored suit knelt beside his partner's chair, head bowed, waiting.

Near the bar, a cluster of men caught your eye. They were watching the room with an easy confidence that spoke of ownership—of the space, of themselves, of others.

One of them, broad-shouldered with a shock of white-streaked black hair, leaned back against the counter. His eyes swept the crowd, sharp and assessing.

Another, leaner, with a dancer's build and a cocky grin, nudged his companion. He murmured something, and their gazes drifted toward you.