curiousity got the cat chapter 2

[inkless1980]

Chapter Two: The Crack in the Facade

Monday morning arrived with the kind of crisp Georgia spring that made the drive to the gym feel almost pleasant. Linda pulled into Donna’s driveway a few minutes early, as they’d agreed the night before. Donna was already waiting outside, gym bag slung over her shoulder, wearing neon-pink compression shorts and a cropped black sports bra that showed off the cut of her abs and the swell of her biceps. Her black bob was still damp from a earlier shower, and she flashed Linda her signature wide grin as she climbed into the passenger seat of Linda’s SUV

“Morning, sunshine,” Donna said, buckling in. “Ready to sweat?”

Linda managed a small smile and pulled out. “Always.”

The short drive to the upscale fitness club was quiet. Donna scrolled through her phone, humming along to the radio, while Linda gripped the wheel a little tighter than necessary. Every few seconds her fingers tapped the steering wheel, or she shifted in her seat, adjusting her black leggings and loose tank top. The glossy program booklet kept flashing in her mind—the woman in thigh-high boots, the riding crop, the handcuffs. She couldn’t shake it, and the silence in the car only made the thoughts louder.

Donna glanced over once or twice but said nothing, letting the quiet stretch.

At the gym they fell into their usual routine: side-by-side bikes in spin class, matching cadence, Donna barking occasional encouragement while Linda pedaled in determined silence. But Linda’s focus kept drifting. She fumbled a dumbbell during circuits, nearly dropping it on her foot. She laughed it off weakly.

In the locker room afterward, Linda peeled off her sweaty tank and reached for her towel. Donna, stripped to sports bra and shorts, snapped her own towel with a practiced flick. The wet end cracked sharply across Linda’s ass—right through the thin fabric of her leggings.

Linda yelped, jumping forward, hand flying to the sting.
“What the hell, Donna?”

“You’ve been somewhere else all morning,” Donna said simply, looping the towel around her neck.

Linda’s face flamed. She glanced around—no one nearby—and lowered her voice. “It’s nothing. Really.”

Donna studied her for a beat, then nodded toward the door. “Come to my place after this. Wine. We’ll talk.”

Linda hesitated. “Robert’s home tonight. I should—”

“An hour,” Donna said. “You need to get whatever this is out of your system. One glass. Then you go home.”

Linda nodded, unable to argue.

An hour later they were on Donna’s back patio, late-morning sun filtering through the live oaks. Two glasses of chilled Pinot sat sweating on the wrought-iron table. Donna kicked off her sandals and propped her feet up, relaxed. Linda sat straight-backed, hands clasped in her lap, the faint sting on her ass still lingering like a reminder.

Donna took a slow sip, then set her glass down. “Okay. Spill. You’ve been off since Saturday—since the closet, since you saw that program.”

Linda’s stomach dropped. She wrapped her arms around herself.
“I… looked it up,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Online. After I left your house. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Donna leaned forward slightly. “And?”

Linda swallowed. “I saw things. Pictures. Articles. It’s… BDSM, right? Bondage and… all that. Whips. Chains. People getting hurt on purpose.”

Donna nodded slowly. “That’s the shorthand version, yeah.”

Linda’s voice cracked a little. “I don’t understand how anyone would want that. It looks painful. Degrading.”

Donna’s expression softened. She reached out and squeezed Linda’s shoulder—firm, grounding.
'You’re curious. That’s normal. Most people who stumble into this world feel shock and confusion first. The pull to understand comes next.”

Donna took another sip, then continued. “BDSM isn’t about abuse. It’s about trust, control, and release. Bondage keeps you from moving so you can feel everything more intensely. Discipline is structure—rules, consequences, rewards. Dominance and submission are about giving or taking power, willingly. Sadism and masochism are about sensation—pain that turns into pleasure because your brain floods with endorphins, dopamine, oxytocin. It’s chemistry, not cruelty.”

Linda frowned. “But the pictures… people were marked. Bruised. Some looked like they were crying.”

“Some cry from relief,” Donna said. “Subspace is a thing—your mind goes floaty, almost high. Pain becomes a pathway to that.”

Linda’s voice was small. “Do you and Mark… do that?”

Donna smiled, slow and unapologetic. “Yes. We’ve been in the scene for years. W&C is our club—private, vetted members only. It’s not a meat market. It’s a community. Demos, classes, play parties. Some nights are social; some are more intense.”

Linda’s eyes widened. “You both… dominate people? Or get dominated?”

“We’re both primarily dominant,” Donna said. “Tops, in scene language. We’ve switched a little, experimented, but our preference is to hold the reins. Mark’s more technical—loves rigging, suspension, precision impact. I’m more psychological—mind games, verbal, sensation play. We each have our own play partners at the club sometimes, but we always come home to each other. It’s not cheating when it’s agreed upon and transparent.”

Linda’s mind reeled. The idea of Donna—her bold, laughing friend—wielding a whip, or Mark calmly tying someone up, felt surreal. And yet it fit. Donna had always been the one in charge.

“I don’t know what to say,” Linda whispered.

“You don’t have to say anything yet,” Donna replied. “Just sit with it. And if you want to know more—see more—I can show you. No pressure. But this stays between us. Until you decide otherwise. Okay?”

Linda nodded, throat tight.

They finished their wine in relative silence. When Linda stood to leave, Donna walked her to the door.

“One more thing,” Donna said, voice low. She stepped close and—without warning—delivered a single, deliberate smack to the same spot the towel had hit earlier. Sharp enough to sting through the yoga pants, firm enough to leave a warm bloom.
Linda gasped, frozen.

“And keep this between us,” Donna murmured, then smiled. “See you soon.”

Linda walked home in a daze, the faint heat on her ass a constant reminder. She showered, changed, started dinner—chicken and vegetables, Robert’s favorite. When he got home, he kissed her hello, asked about her day. She told him about spin class, about Donna’s new deadlift PR. Normal things. Safe things.

They ate. Watched a sitcom. Went to bed.

In the dark, Robert’s arm draped over her waist, Linda stared at the ceiling. The sting had faded, but the questions hadn’t.
Why had Donna kept this part of her life hidden? What really happened on those monthly weekends? And why did knowing about it feel like peering through a crack in a door she’d never noticed before?