His To CONTROL

CHAPTER 3 - NARRATOR

Four years in London transform both men into formidable executives.

Jamerson rises through Summers Global Advertising with a speed that attracts equal parts admiration and suspicion. His surname opens doors, but it does not keep them open. He spends months rotating through media buying, client strategy and international accounts, arriving before senior staff and leaving after the cleaning crews. By thirty-two, he occupies the chief executive's office in Canary Wharf.

He knows some employees will always believe the position was handed to him.

So he works hard enough to make the accusation irrelevant.

Remi advances with equal determination through the Remington corporate-marketing conglomerate. He inherits his father's talent for negotiation and his mother's instinct for presentation. In Mayfair dining rooms and Bank boardrooms, he turns charm into leverage and attention into currency.

Success changes the shape of their friendship. At university, proximity does most of the work; in London, every meeting must be chosen. Weeks pass between drinks. Then one calls after midnight and the other answers as though they spoke that morning. They attend the same launches, compete for overlapping accounts and occasionally sit on opposite sides of negotiations where neither offers an easy concession.

They respect each other more for that.

Jamerson buys a modern townhouse in Limehouse, close enough to Canary Wharf and Bank to make either commute painless. The house has glass, river views and rooms arranged with immaculate control. Remi calls it a luxury bunker. Jamerson never invites him to stay.

Remi maintains a Mayfair apartment near his family's offices and treats London as an extension of his drawing room.

Their professional paths cross regularly. Their private interests remain the stronger bond.

London offers commercial dungeons, private parties and invitation-only circles, but few spaces combine discretion, luxury and serious safety standards. The city's wealthy can purchase secrecy. What they cannot easily purchase is trust.

The opportunity arrives four years after graduation.

A private syndicate intends to convert a former bank near Chancery Lane into an exclusive members' club. The building appears narrow from the street, its pale stone frontage marked only by a discreet brass plaque. Beneath it, reinforced vaults and service tunnels provide three subterranean levels large enough for performance rooms, private suites and secure access.

The proposed name is Cross.

Jamerson and Remi tour the site while it is still raw concrete, exposed brick and architectural drawings. Remi sees commercial potential. Jamerson studies the fire exits, staffing ratios, medical room and monitor positions.

By midnight, they agree to invest as silent partners.

The renovation lasts fourteen months.

Planning restrictions protect the historic frontage, so construction moves inward and down. The old cash vault becomes a circular demonstration chamber. Safe-deposit corridors widen into private rooms. A service entrance opens onto a rear lane where members can arrive without passing the public door.

Jamerson attends every safety review. He asks about ventilation, load ratings and emergency access until the architects begin anticipating him. Remi focuses on atmosphere: lighting, scent, fabrics and the transition from public elegance to private intensity.

Together, their instincts make Cross persuasive. Nothing looks accidental. Nothing feels cheap.

The club's public-facing company is registered as a private hospitality consultancy. Staff sign strict confidentiality agreements, but discretion is never allowed to obstruct safeguarding. Monitors report through a separate chain from membership management. Medical personnel remain on site whenever the play floors are open.

Some investors worry that visible precautions will unsettle patrons.

Jamerson argues the opposite.

"People who carry public reputations need to know a room can survive the truth," he says. "Safety is not an apology. It is the product."

Remi turns the sentence into the foundation of the launch strategy.

The highest membership tier costs ten thousand pounds a month, even for founding investors. VIP Plus includes permanent private suites, biometric entry, individual equipment storage, medical screening, concierge matching and access at any hour. The price is intentionally prohibitive. Cross is designed for people who value discretion more than money.

Even the wealthiest applicants are not guaranteed entry. References are checked. New members attend an orientation and serve a probationary period before gaining access to private suites. Money buys consideration, never exemption.

That principle exists because Jamerson insists upon it.

The membership committee initially objects to charging founding investors the full fee. Remi surprises them by supporting Jamerson.

"If our money exempts us from the price," he says, "members will assume it exempts us from the rules."

The sentence becomes part of the minutes.

Years later, Jamerson will remember it with particular bitterness.

Before the opening charter is finalised, the lead director invites both men to observe two demonstration scenes. The club intends to promote one as its signature experience.

The first chamber is bathed in warm, amber light, scented faintly with warmed almond oil and vanilla. Inside, two experienced Dominants are concluding the initial intake with a submissive woman kneeling comfortably between them on a plush velvet mat. The verbal check-in is thorough: boundaries are reconfirmed, safe words reaffirmed, and her breath settles into a steady, relaxed cadence under their collective attention.

The dynamic centres on a negotiated breeding and lactation kink. The primary Dom kneels behind her, his broad hands resting firmly on her shoulders to ground her while the secondary Dom warms his palms and begins a slow, rhythmic massage of her breasts. The touch is patient and deliberate, stimulating the tissue until small beads of breast milk well at the darkened crests of her n*****s. She leans back against the Dom behind her with a soft, breathy sigh of surrender, her eyes fluttering shut as the second Dom leans down to taste her, drawing the milk with steady, deliberate suction.

Every motion steeped in primal intimacy and adoration. As the Dominant behind her adjusts his hips, aligning himself with slow, rhythmic pressure against her thighs, the room hums with a heavy, deeply rooted atmosphere of fertility, claiming, and complete emotional absorption. The aftercare is seamless; even as the scene crests, both men maintain continuous contact, wrapping her in a warm cashmere throw and murmuring quiet words of praise as she drifts into a contented subspace.

The director guides them to a second observation room.

Here, the focus is technical pain play. Two Dominants stand flanking a male submissive secured in an open suspension frame, his posture upright and balanced. The preliminary protocol is meticulously documented on a clipboard resting by the doorway. With practised precision, the first Dom utilises a heavy suede flogger, placing rhythmic, stinging strikes across the large muscle groups of the submissive’s back and shoulders, carefully avoiding the kidneys and spine.

The second Dom stands directly before the submissive, maintaining constant eye contact, monitoring pupil dilation, and regulating the man’s breathing through vocal anchors. As the intensity escalates, moving from the dull thud of heavy leather to the sharp, biting report of a supple cane against his thighs, the submissive’s body flushes crimson with an immense surge of natural endorphins. The balance between severity and care is absolute; the moment a micro-expression of distress flickers across the submissive’s face, the striking ceases instantly, replaced by firm, grounding compressions and chilled compresses against his temples.

When both demonstrations end, the director asks which should lead the opening campaign.

"Both," Remi answers.

Jamerson agrees, though his reasoning differs.

The first dynamic offers emotional immersion and a sense of being claimed. The second offers catharsis to people whose daily lives require relentless restraint. They serve different needs. Eliminating either would reduce Cross to a single idea of desire.

The permanent charter retains both.

The decision establishes the club's identity. Cross will not sell one narrow fantasy of power. Its rooms accommodate surrender expressed through stillness, sensation, service, endurance or carefully controlled pain. Every track is structured around informed choice.

Remi develops the language used to present that promise. Jamerson builds the procedures meant to keep it true.

Jamerson insists on additional clauses. Monitors have authority to stop any scene, regardless of a participant's status. Consent records must be stored separately from membership data. A patron's investment cannot protect them from suspension.

Remi signs the provisions without objection.

"You're building a fortress against imaginary disasters," he tells Jamerson afterwards.

"Then we lose nothing if they remain imaginary."

Cross opens six months later.

On opening night, the exterior remains almost anonymous. Chauffeured cars stop only long enough to release passengers. Inside, staff greet each member without using names aloud. The main salon glows in amber and dark red, while the deeper floors shift towards slate, charcoal and warm stone.

Jamerson and Remi watch from the mezzanine.

They are still young enough to believe foresight can eliminate every danger. Every door has a lock. Every corridor has a monitor. Every scene begins with written limits.

Yet the greatest threat to Cross will never be a stranger who enters without understanding its rules.

It will be a founding partner who understands them perfectly and decides they no longer apply to him.