His rickety, rusty little truck made for hauling looked out of place in the parking lot full of Roll Royces, limos, and other expensive foreign shits he can't name. But he paid for his membership just like the high class doms and subs and he'll be damned if he's gonna be denied entry, denied pleasure he denied himself for so long.
That's what he's been telling himself as the sun sets and he's still in said shitty truck, hands grasping on his steering wheel. The engine's off, his heart is in his throat, and he's close to turning it back on until his collar catches his eye and he lets out a sigh.
"You can do this, Ambrose." Great, he was talking to himself. "You got this, man…those prissy fucks won't know what hit 'em."
If Dean Ambrose was anything, he was stubborn as hell. Bullheaded and determined and despite the butterflies in his stomach and his legs are Jell-O. He thinks the feeling, this tension and uneasiness, wild dissipate as he gets to the front door of The Kingdom.
It's elegant, several stories tall in the middle of nowhere, resembling a high class hotel and Dean's hand doesn't stop shaking as he grasps the door handle. The lobby is rather normal, resembling a slick, modern style restaurant or something and the man at the reception desk looks at him in disbelief.
"I, uh, 'm a member…" Dean rasps, sliding the collar and identification card they had mailed to him out of his pocket. His palms are sweaty, but the receptionist with a crooked nose and neatly trimmed beard and light eyes takes it with a winning and pleasant smile.
"First time, hmm?" A British accent and the Ohioan would chuckle at how ridiculously appropriate it is that a posh ass place like this has Brits working the front desk if he didn't feel like jumping out of his own skin from nerves.
He grunts in assent as takes in more of the scenery while the receptionist, Wade the little metal nameplate says, eyes beginning to bulge. There's a winding marble staircase with a cherry wood railing, the couches and chairs in this little reception area made of pure leather, and Dean swears he can see gold flecks in the pure black floor beneath him. Right, so $6,000.
"Since this is your first visit, we need you to sign a confidentiality agreement." Wade explains and hands over a black clipboard with a simple form Dean starts to sign. "All drinks, rooms, and equipment are covered in your membership fees. Assistants are available in every main congregating room. They wear white wristbands. You can ask them any questions at any time. Dom's wear black leather wrist wear with their names, red for those allergic to latex and gold for those not. Likewise for Sub's collars. "
"Mmhm…" Dean nods in understanding, ears perking up when he realizes that at the very least there's unlimited booze. Because now he's starting to regret it, that stubbornness sinking into him as he notices a golden watch on Wade's wrist that probably costs more than Dean makes in half a year. He doesn't belong here.
"And there's a red panic button in the corner of all private rooms, just in case." And Dean twitches at that, blue orbs going wide because what the absolute fuck? "Don't worry, it's a failsafe for any emergency." The Brit realizes he isn't conceived and continues. "I have had the pleasure of working for this particular location for seven years. The panic button was pressed only once in that time and it was due to a curtain catching fire.
While now Dean's face is just scrunched up in confusion. "Candles…waxplay." He clarifies, finding it a bit bizarre that a man who has a membership to the hottest, most discreet, and priciest BDSM club needs this type of clarification. He knew he was new to the club, but maybe he was knew to the whole scene.
"Anything else er…?" The brunette asks, shoving his hands into his jean pockets nervously, a slight nervous twitch to his face that the receptionist tries not to notice.
"Not if you don't have any questions." He pauses for a moment before sliding from behind the desk finally, standing up, fucking Christ he's tall, and handing Dean a simple little silver key in exchange for his leather jacket, the slender male opting to keep on his raggedy black hoodie, thumbs poking through the sleeves. "Welcome to The Kingdom, Prince Dean."