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But I was well schooled in locating things, and after just a few hours, I was headed to the lower West Side and an "establishment" simply called "THE SandMan's CASTLE." My field intel told me that this was the place for real people who were living the lives of D/s. The people who frequented The Castle were committed to everything from bondage and discipline to corporal punishment and humiliation. Masters and slaves, Mistresses and slaves, gay, straight, and everything in between. I found the building on West 16th Street. Three stories. Weather worn red brick. Had probably been built in the late 18th Century and used as a factory of some kind. The few windows that faced the street had long ago been bricked over. A massive wooden double door the sole entrance. Over the door, hanging from dingy thick chains on a rusted mast was a wooden sign shaped like a turret in a castle. It looked similar to a rook from a classic chess set. In front of the door, nonchalantly standing guard,. ‘Well, there aren’t any other seats in the room, so I guess it’s okay.’ He could still see her that day with her thick, bushy, brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses, an appearance so unlike most of the other women with their long straight hair, tailored clothes, aristocratic air, who looked as if they had just stepped out of an advertisement in Seventeen or Glamour. She wore a long flowery skirt that came below her knees and a baggy green turtleneck sweater, several rows of a beaded necklace and sandals. She looked, more bohemian than Ivy. When she sat down next to him, his heart leaped in a way that surprised him, having no idea at the time where that moment would lead. Max poured the water into Rosie’s yellow mug, then glanced over at her as she sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window, her chin resting on her hand. What is she thinking about? What is she trying to remember? Dipping the Earl Grey teabag into the mug, he watched the water turn bronze-colored, knowing how.
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