Booker is amidst of a drawn-out divorce and is still working for his wife at an appraisal firm. He’s addicted to her control, and his friends think they have just the power-dominance cure to break her spell over him.

Sway

Relationships are truly a complicated, exclusive, club for two. Of course, that changes if you’re into ENM, ethical non-monogamy.

Personally, ENM is not for me. I can’t seem to stay in a club of two. Try adding a third, or fourth—my goodness! I’m far too attached to one; clearly, as I sit in the boardroom waiting for our next client, watching my ex-wife through the glass office walls.

Correction, Bridget is still my wife. We’re processing the divorce papers. Look at her smile; I love that canine tooth that pokes out a little more than the rest of her teeth.

Working for her isn’t helping me move on. Telling her I “lost” her pillowcases just so I can sleep by them each night doesn’t aid the situation either.

My smartwatch says it’s past ten, meaning this new client is already late. I take a sip of the best coffee in the world, JJ’s, and try to calm my restless legs.

It’s not the new client that’s on my mind.

It’s seeing Bridget day in and day out at the office.

It’s the nerves of meeting my friend Danyal and his partner Wei later, reminding me to move on with my life.

It’s been hell, ten months of hell.

A firm knock comes from the glass door, and there’s Bridget. Her emerald hawk eyes are stern. She’s in business mode, which never distracts me from her fiery orange hair that rests perfectly on her Alexander McQueen silk blazer. The high-end midnight blue material always pairs well with those black shoes. I barely hear her words, entranced by her presence. She says something about the client being here and to be speedy with it.

A lady comes from down the hall with a leather binder. Her high heels click, walking as if her legs are pencils, shifting back-and-forth, due to the tight leather skirt. I’m drawn to her black gloves with little white bowties on each more than the ruffle cut-out blouse made of a deep velvety material. Those gloves must be by Cornelia James. I truly admire a high sense of fashion—just look at Bridget.

The new client and Bridget shake hands politely, and she enters the meeting room. Bridget gives me one last look, not of love—God I wish—but of ‘chop, chop.’

I introduce myself as Booker, and she does as Olivia. Her voice has a rich, feathery tone to it. It’s soothing. I shake her gloved hand, now noticing the cup of JJ’s she put on the table.

Olivia opens the binder and shows me several pieces of paper with photographs of her painting collection. She explains her consulting business accumulated the pieces during a small tech firm buyout. The founder had an eye for good art. There must be at least two dozen unique works here. This is far more than I anticipated and will take time to understand the value of each one. Sorry, Bridget.

These paintings are spectacular. I’m drawn to an abstract piece with cubism influences. The harsh lines and geometric shapes in a gunmetal monotone colour scheme would look lovely in our—make that, my home.

Olivia says she needs these valued by next week. We discuss the usual: how old they are, who painted them, and with what mediums. It’s the typical introduction, and of course, I must have a closer look at these works.

She mentions that knowing the value of the cubism piece is most important to her. She wishes to display it for a private party next Friday and wants to have the pricing available for potential buyers. I assured her that it would be fine. We set a time to see the paintings in her storage unit and I shake her hand, feeling the silky material of the glove again. It’s quite pleasing on my skin.

As Olivia leaves, she says I have good taste in coffee, tilting her head at my JJ’s cup. I blurt out that her choice in Cornelia James finger suits are equally great. I imagine the gloves flying off her hands and slapping me across the face. What a stupid thing to say to a new client! What are finger suits? Unprofessional. Oddly, she thanks me with a slight bow, clarifies that the gloves are by Dents, and she leaves the office in her pencil strut. What a delightful new client.

In the evening, I meet Danyal and Wei at their house. We catch up, with me blabbering about how the divorce is going. Wei says I need to take her belongings and throw them on the street. He’s right. Me storing her belongings in the house lets her drag me around like her pet dog.

Strangely, I confess to them that I think I enjoy the control. It keeps me attracted to her, giving her a power that I cannot resist. Then I think about that client and her gloves slapping me. It’s a captivating idea.

Danyal says he knows just the thing that can springboard me to move on. He’s part of an invite-only club, Club Sway, where members express power dynamics for play and pleasure. Danyal says he is more than willing to vouch for me.

I know this is a BDSM club. It is something that I’ve wanted to try. Bridget and I had the usual ball gag and chains, nothing special. This is an opportunity to embrace my dominance fantasy.

I agree, and we set a date for this Friday.

Danyal warns me of the all-black dress code. Wei encourages me to embrace the subculture and is kind enough to lend me his PVC pants. These trousers happen to have five cleverly placed spikes right where you’d expect.

During the week, all I can think about is Friday night.

I’m nervous.

I’m unsure if I can go through with it.

I’m aware that seeing my wife smile through the glass walls everyday isn’t helping.

I’m doing my best to focus on Olivia’s case and leaving the office to meet her at the storage unit is a brief exemption.

Once again, she’s clad in a wonderfully stylish outfit. A clean, simple blazer with one exaggerated zipper, black pants, and a white blouse. No gloves this time. Drat.

We go through her collection one by one. I jot my notes, examining their conditions, and taking photos. They’re far more impressive in person, due to their size and detail.

Olivia jokes, saying I have no cup of JJ’s today. I say I save the best thing for later in the day. She asks if that makes her second best.

I smile, realizing I’m getting too personal again and try to focus on the pieces. She says she is surprised that my clothing is so . . . plain considering my knowledge.

Olivia indeed has a good eye for finer things. She’s right; I admire good taste but fail to wear anything beyond Hugo Boss. The brand is nice, but rather typical, and it’s economically conscious too with the divorce in mind.

I shift our focus back to the art, feeling my throat tense up. Nerves? I don’t know. I need to get back to Bridget—the office, I need to get back to the office. Olivia and I say our goodbyes. She gently squeezes my elbow in a friendly gesture that I welcome.

I return to the office and work on the appraisal. Bridget reminds me to hurry up with the client. Maybe I don’t want to rush this one.

Friday arrives. Danyal and Wei meet me, bringing a police officer’s hat to complete my outfit. I put on a black dress shirt and Wei’s phallic pants. Bondage, law enforcement, and power control all make sense.

We head out to this underground Club Sway in an abandoned brick building east of downtown in the alley. I can already hear the thumping music outside.

Danyal leads us down a set of stairs to the entranceway, where two grizzly men guard the steel door. Danyal speaks, saying that he is vetting for me. One of the burly men informs us that the membership requires a hundred-dollar deposit and another hundred the following week, showing my dedication.

I’m unsure if I can go through with this. Two hundred dollars! Is that what it costs to get over my ex-wife? I don’t think that’s fair at all. People find all sorts of healthy mechanisms to move on, like fitness or travel. Perhaps working with your former lover isn’t the best way to tend to your wounds.

Danyal, being the stand-up guy he is, offers to pay for the deposit. He sifts through his wallet as the clicking of heels echoes from atop the staircase, coming closer. The guards open the door for this lady behind us, and she steps forward, allowing me to get a good long look at the fiery orange hair.

My entire body turns ice, even in these airless plastic pants. This woman is with a taller, broad-shouldered chap. She is the right height, has the right coloured hair, and the beaming smile emphasizes her one canine tooth. I know her to be none other than Bridget . . . with some man.

Two hundred dollars, and my ex-wife seals the deal. There’s not a chance in the world I’m going in there. I storm up the stairs, hurrying down the night street, hearing Danyal and Wei shout my name.

Boy, let me tell you, they were quite displeased. Danyal sent a massive wall of text to my smartphone. He emphasized how I must follow through with the initiation; otherwise, it makes him look poorly to the club.

Eventually, I apologized, typing out that I saw Bridget there. He is quick, texting that I need to drop it for my health. Bridget and I have the same taste in almost all aspects of life, making it difficult to avoid her.

Danyal and I text back-and-forth, me trying to explain my damaged heart and him telling me to come to the club. His name is on the line now, and there’s a big birthday celebration for one of the co-founders next Friday. Guilt riddles me, and I agree. Next Friday it is.

On Monday, I keep working on Olivia’s appraisal. After a few minor adjustments, the collection’s value is finalized, no thanks to Bridget’s constant pressure.

I fled in shame that night because I can’t bear seeing my ex-wife clearly moving on.

I feel sick that she walked by, not noticing me.

I call Olivia to meet me.

On Tuesday, we sit in the boardroom, where I go over the estimates. I try to focus, but her full pinstripe suit pulls me in. Even the square earrings, one black and the other white, dangling from the lobes, are complementary.

Olivia notices my daydreaming and jokes, asking if I want to try the suit. I laugh with her. It lightens the mood while I go through each painting. We finish the loose ends of the appraisal, and she’s ready to sell them at her event.

Before leaving, Olivia brushes her black hair behind her ear. She’s looking down, tapping her leather binder, then, looks directly at me. Her following words are a surprise. Olivia asks me out for a cup at JJ’s.

I’m stunned and stand frozen in my body. From the corner of my eye, I see Bridget in her office watching the two of us. I know she can read Olivia’s body language and I’m certain she wants this wrapped up. Those damn glass walls!

It only creates a more constricted prison.

It’s exciting.

It’s also draining.

It’s . . . it . . . makes me come up with some clumsy excuse to decline Olivia’s offer. She blushes, and I try to repair the exchange by telling her that I have her card. She masks herself in a smile and hurries out of the office.

What a fool I am. There’s no way I’ll ever tell Danyal and Wei. They’ll never let me hear the end of it. My grievance sparks an act of spontaneous rage, and I throw out Bridget’s pillowcases in a satisfying victory.

Friday arrives, and I suit up in my vampire-fighting police officer costume once more. Danyal and Wei meet me at my place, and we share a few drinks to lube up my mind. I need them. I keep thinking about declining Olivia. There’s also a good chance that Bridget will be at Club Sway again, especially if it’s a big party.

We leave home and arrive at the familiar staircase, with Danyal and Wei behind me. They’re making sure that I cannot flee again. The guard gives me a stern look of disapproval. Danyal pleads, and the guard pulls out a white leather collar from a bag, resting on a table behind him.

He tells me to put it on, saying it is part of the initiation. I ask why, and he says it’s to identify me amongst the members.

I buckle the collar around my neck, initiating my membership into Club Sway as the guards open the door. Wei, Danyal, and I enter the club.

Pulsating, heavy, distorted beats blare from the amps at the far end of this dungeon. Black lights highlight the lobby while coloured ones signify different rooms where groups play scenes together. Some are tie-ups, others role play, and some involve pain with floggers and other creative devices.

A few of the doors are shut for private fun. A dancefloor is at the far end by the blaring music. In the middle is a common area, where most members mingle. There’s a central pillar with a table of snacks and water resting against it. On the wall, I notice a remarkably familiar cubism painting.

There, off to the side, I see Bridget’s striking hair. She’s got her arm wrapped around that same gentleman. He’s taller than me and far more fit. I clasp my gut, feeling the fat in disgrace. A breakup has a way of declining your physique through ever-gripping misery. At this point, I want to turn and run.

“Welcome, darlings!” comes a strident, feathery voice. My ears tingle.

That familiar voice is reassuring as I turn to see Olivia approach us from the dark. She is wearing a birthday hat on top of her black hair and is the only one with a hat, which contradicts the complete black PVC dress and the flogger in her gloved hands.

She gives Wei and Danyal a hug and does a double-take of me. Her smile doubles in size. “Booker?”

“Hello,” I say. “Is this party for you?”

“How did you know?”

“Wild guess.”

I glance at Bridget once more and push it aside. She may be here, but I’m no longer part of her club. We can co-exist, and she won’t have me under her spell. I’m ready to embrace a new kind of exclusivity and say, “Happy birthday, Olivia.”