No Pain, No Gain

By then, Michael and Deb were already building that defense system in Commerce City. "The general paradigm was, get a group of people, find a building, rent it and open up and hope you don't get noticed, because, to the best of my knowledge, nobody has ever licensed a BDSM club within the state," says Michael. "Usually you get some other type of license. And what usually happens is somebody complains and the city looks into it. They don't have to address the First Amendment rights of adults doing what they want to do; they nickel-and-dime you for zoning and coding and licensing, and because you haven't dealt with that, they can get you on it.

A few in the community wondered if this zealotry was necessary, insisting that as long as they ran a licensed, private social club, Michael and Deb didn't have to worry about things like adult content. "Michael and Deb and I definitely have different models," observes Love Slave, who runs a non-profit, private BDSM club that's been in operation, under different names, since 2004. "We are legal here. We fit all the legal requirements for a private-member social club in the city of Denver, and we fit all the zoning requirements."

"If it is a bona fide private club and in the appropriate zone district, we don't regulate -- whether they are a bunch of numismatists or Masonics or whatever," agrees Denver Assistant City Attorney Kerry Buckey. "They still are forbidden from doing anything illegal there, but that is regulated by other codes and generally would be a police issue."

But Michael and Deb didn't want to take any chances. "My experience with BDSM clubs is that the city says that until someone complains," says Michael. "We are all private clubs, and intuitively you would think that would eliminate the adult-business license requirement, but the fact of the matter is, people are paying money to attend these functions, and municipalities can see that as a commercial enterprise."

That's why they made sure their renovated warehouse met every possible fire and building code. That's also why they told Commerce City officials exactly what they planned to do at the Enclave. And when both the Commerce City planning department and its city attorney said that even though the Enclave was a private social club it needed a sexually-oriented-business (SOB) license to allow nudity and flogging, Michael and Deb got their operation up and running minus the flesh and flagellation.

A year later, they went ahead and applied for the SOB license. "We decided, 'Let's stop lying and hiding,'" remembers Michael. "So they can't sneak in and bust us."

They got busted anyway.

"You all listen up," Michael says to the 65 Enclave members who've shown up for this private party. "For those who aren't reading our e-mails, we've added needle play." There's a whoop from the crowd. This leaves a very short list of no-nos at the facility: autoerotic asphyxiation, bloodletting and other fluid play, fire play and, of course, old-fashioned fornication. ("That is a personal hygienic decision," says Deb. "We are not a sex club, so we think sex is best done other places. People can get titillated and warmed up. It's like foreplay.")

From the crowd comes a wise-ass question: "How about chainsaws?"

Michael smirks. "It's fine until you break the skin."

Members head off to play. In the downstairs dungeon, a mustached man straps a gray-haired woman to a vertical wooden frame and prepares to send her into subspace -- using pain, restraint and other sensations to create an endorphin-fueled high where the standard boundaries of pleasure and pain don't apply. From a toolbox, he withdraws a slender, single-tail whip. Leather connects with flesh, and her muzzled mouth cries out. He pauses, massaging her back. "I'm a sick fuck, aren't I?" he whispers. "What else do I have..." From his toy box, he withdraws an electrical cord, which he plugs into a device attached to his waist. To his fingers he attaches short metal claws, which he runs above her skin. Sparks crackle as she writhes and gasps.

Michael, observing the scene, whispers a secret: "I've felt that on its highest setting, and I get a bigger shock from the doorknob at home."

That doesn't matter when you're in subspace.

Upstairs, a man straps a blindfolded woman, arms outstretched, to a vertical rack in the center of the play room and slaps her with a riding crop. At one point, between giggles and squeals, she reports, "I'm not liking that, sir." He pauses and holds her, whispering in her ear before switching to other techniques.