Page 66 of Terms of Exposure
No photography or recording. Smart.
Release of liability for consensual activities. Reasonable.
It was, in fact, exactly what they said it was. A basic liability waiver dressed up in legalese.
I picked up the stylus and signed.
"One more thing," Mira said, fingers poised over her keyboard. "What name would you like to go by this evening? Some members prefer pseudonyms."
I glanced at Damien.
"I just use mine," he said with a slight shrug. "But it's entirely up to you."
I hesitated, turning the question over. A fake name—an alias to hide behind. Also a lie. And I was so tired of lies.
"Simple is best, right?"
Damien's mouth quirked. "Mutually assured destruction, remember?"
"Emma," I told Mira. "Just Emma."
She typed it in with a warm smile. "Perfect. Welcome to Veil, Emma." She gestured toward a heavy velvet curtain to our left. "Enjoy your evening."
Damien guided me through the velvet curtain and into a long hallway. The music was louder here—a low, pulsing beat that vibrated through the floor—but still muted enough for conversation.
To our right, a glass-walled room housed rows of chairs facing a projector screen. A whiteboard stood in the corner, half-erased notes still visible.
"Classes," Damien said, following my gaze. "Workshops, guest speakers, support groups. They hold beginner sessions every other Saturday." He smiled. "Rope bondage, negotiation techniques, aftercare best practices. That sort of thing."
I frowned slightly. "There are classes?"
"How do you think people learn to do this safely?" He squeezed my hand. "It's not all sex dungeons and riding crops, love."
Before I could respond, movement caught my attention to the left.
Another glass room—this one warmer, more inviting. A long table stretched along the back wall, covered in food. Bowls of chips. Platters of cheese and crackers. A tupperware container with a handwritten label that read "Lisa's Famous Brownies." And in the center, a sheet cake with bright blue frosting that proclaimed "Happy Birthday Derek!" in looping script.
A small cluster of people milled around the table, chatting andlaughing. One woman in a corset poured herself a cup of something steaming from a large dispenser. A man in leather pants selected a cookie with the careful deliberation of someone choosing a fine wine.
"The food is free," Damien explained, steering me past the doorway. "Open to everyone. Lemonade, tea, coffee, sparkling water." He paused, letting the next part land. "No alcohol permitted on the premises."
I turned to him. "None?"
"None." His expression was serious now. "Everyone who walks through those doors is expected to have a completely clear mind. No exceptions." He held my gaze. "There's no room for blurred consent here. Not ever."
"That's..." I searched for the word. "Reassuring, actually."
"It should be." He lifted my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "This isn't some back-alley kink den, Emma. It's a community. And communities have rules."
We passed through another velvet curtain—the fabric brushing against my bare arms—and stepped into a space that made me stop in my tracks.
The lounge was enormous. Soft lighting cast everything in warm amber tones, shadows pooling in corners like spilled ink. Oversized armchairs dotted the room, ones you could sink into and never want to leave. Couches lined the walls. And against the far corner, several beds—actual beds, with pillows and throws—where couples lay tangled together, murmuring to each other.
But it was the corner to my left that caught my attention.
An entire section had been decorated in pink. Bright, unapologetic pink. Plush toys covered every surface—stuffed unicorns, oversized teddy bears, fuzzy pillows shaped like hearts. Two young women sat cross-legged on the floor, giggling as they played with what looked like a collection of squishy stress toys.
I stared.
