If there was such a thing as a “normal” sex and fetish club, Power Exchange wasn’t it.  Victoria had seen more than her unfair share of sex establishments and she worked hard to make sure hers was something above and beyond.  Power Exchange was a full service, high class, meeting, greeting, and sometimes play place for real people.  The exquisite and resplendently stocked bar was as opulent as any at a Morton’s steak house.  The dark wood was polished to a deep burnished gloss and festooned with bar napkins sporting a silver embossed set of handcuffs.  The bar stools and chairs were supple leather and chrome.  The heavy tumblers were decorated with slave collars and the guests could request ones that said Master, Slave, or Spank me; the latter was used mostly for the undecided.  
 

Other than the club’s ornamental trends toward BDSM and those two bar based concessions to the lifestyle, the main room gave few clues to the club being somewhere the fetish life was openly practiced.  The main venue was primarily a dance area, bathed in the requisite light show, never ending dance music, mirrors, and when full of patrons, it almost dripped in sweat, desperate want, and need.  
 

Victoria had always had a fancy for neon signs and in the club she used them to direct members to specific areas of the building.  The club had several back areas, cordoned off with silk rope that led to discrete doors that hid the private playrooms.  Non-members were allowed in the main bar and in the gift shop; where fetish clothing and sex toys were discretely and tastefully displayed for sale.  Victoria was amazed at the income the gift shop brought in and had expanded its size and selection over the last two years.  
 

She had learned that people spent more and enjoyed shopping more in a tasteful yet erotically charged environment.  Guests had to request access to the toys if they hoped to encounter brazen pictures of naked men and women on the boxes.  In Victoria’s view, class seldom dressed itself in pornographic display and Power Exchange was infused with the same subtle style that Victoria required of herself.  
 

The playrooms were designated by ‘Members Only’ signs and were accessed through locked doors.  Entrance into the rooms was granted through the use of small electrical key fobs that a member picked up at the bar.  Once a member came in, he or she would usually step to the bar and drop off valuables for storage in a locker.  From the locker came the key fob, suitable for clipping to a silver necklace provided by the club or clipped to some other fetish clothing which invariably had chrome rings of some sort.  Most found it convenient and remarkably safe.
 

The primary playroom was bathed in soft flattering, recessed lighting.  It too had a bar. A more austere affair, bar two was basically a fill up station for those who didn’t want to have to throw on a cover-up to go into the main public area.  The main area required at least a semblance of clothing, the playroom was clothing optional.  It was seldom one encountered a naked person without some form of decoration but it was allowed.  By custom, people wore at least a collar and usually a wraparound towel.  
 

There were several large chairs, a large sofa, bar chairs and small tables to hold the drinks of those mixing, mingling and showing devotion to one another, even if only for the next half hour.  The occasional orgy was known to have started in this room so condom dispensers dotted the environment.  Victoria made sure the personal umbrellas were provided at cost.  God didn’t intend for some things to be profit centers.  On the other side of the coin, leather whips and floggers constituted a nice profit and of course hand cuffs of the metal and more often Velcro varieties carried a substantial markup, but condoms, for

Christ sake, those saved people’s lives, and protection had no fair price.  
 

Unlike most drinking establishments, Power Exchange kept the wall spaces open and devoid of tables.  What use were private little booths when you wanted everyone to see you play?  The other aspect of the open walls policy was you never knew when a dominant might need to chain a submissive to the wall for a quick session of training or a chance to head to the bathroom.  The wall eyebolts made is possible for a dominant to know where their property was.   Some spaces were specifically designated no approach zones.  A submissive chained to one of these spaces on the wall couldn’t be approached by anyone except the club’s service staff.  It amazed Victoria, even with her experience in the lifestyle, at how happy some people were to be chained to a wall.  
 

The large chairs were intentionally difficult to move but tables could easily be pushed about to make room for those men and women who enjoyed being used as tables.  It wasn’t unusual for a submissive, usually male, to be found on his hands and knees for extended periods while his owner, usually a female, would sit drinks on his back and chat about what a good little boy he was.  It also wasn’t unusual for that human table to be a person who happened to be an executive of some stripe.
At the far end of the main playroom, three other darker doors beckoned.  The first entrance was the main dungeon — a place where Victoria often gave lessons in bondage to small groups of those wishing to expand their play repertoire.  Safety was always the first portion of lessons.  The range of play went from learning the ropes of ropes and bondage all the way to advanced lessons in power kink.  Even though she had numerous requests for breath play from her patrons, Victoria forbade it in her club.
 

Breath play was the act of depriving your partner oxygen by way of a plastic bag, or smothering with an ample set of ass cheeks.  It is known that an orgasm for the person being victimized in breath play was the best in their life.  Unfortunately, breath play orgasms were sometimes the last orgasm in the victim’s life.  Some had taken to calling breath play, “cumming and going” in reference to the orgasm and passing out. In her police detective days, Victoria had seen too many dead bodies from accidental excess.  Suicide by stupid was her phrase for it.
 

During the required play warnings Victoria always talked about two past cases: one about a country sheriff who had died with a bag around his head, his dick in his hand and a very surprised look on his face.  The other was a paramedic who had accidentally been smothered as his plus size girlfriend who had finally reached her goal of multiple orgasms while sitting on her lover’s face.  Having reached her fifth climax in as many minutes she finally came back to earth to realize that while she had been in heaven she had inadvertently suffocated her husband.  His hands and feet had been tied to the bedpost and he was unable say his safe word because his mouth and nose were encased with her voluptuous ass.  Their contingency safe plan, apparently carefully considered, had been for him to hold a set of keys in his hand and if he dropped them to the floor she would know that he was dangerously out of air.  They didn’t count on the keys getting caught on his watch as he dropped them.  She never heard a sound and he never uttered a word.  After the investigation, the charges were dropped more effectively than the keys.  The heavyset woman went on to lose one hundred fifty pounds.  The lesson that Victoria wanted to pass on was that no one was immune to error and she didn’t want even one soul to play their way to Saint Peter.  Breath play was absolutely forbidden in the club.
 

The third door led to several private dungeons; places where well-trained couples could play to their hearts content.  Each dungeon door held a sign that clearly stated the room was under video monitoring for the safety of all involved.  Racks, tables and devices of erotic torture play filled the spaces.  Only those with proper identification, signed releases and Victoria’s consent were allowed in these specialty rooms.  When individuals or couples who sought the services of a professional dominatrix came to the club, these were the rooms used.  The private dungeons were an enormous source of income for the club, better than even the bars.  
 

In the very back of the hallway to these rooms was Victoria’s own dungeon.  They called it her playground but in reality she didn’t play there, she worked there.  Time with Victoria ran between three and five hundred dollars an hour, depending on the kink requested.  
 

She never had sex with any client; never really enjoyed using the room, but this room actually represented the highest value resource for the club.  Pro dommes were the reason for much of the respect that the club had earned.  Of late, Victoria had been hiring other pro dommes and dominants, but they only used the normal dungeon rooms.  Only Victoria and her clients were allowed in her room.  Everyone thought it was a sign of her personal dominion and value to the club, but in reality it was her place of personal agony and shame.  She worked out her own demons in this room, harder on herself than any client.  No one was even allowed to clean the room.  She polished, dusted and cleaned client sweat by herself.  Inside her own dungeon she felt both safe and terribly self recriminating.  It was good for both her good soul and her bad soul.