It was a club unlike any other. It wasn’t necessarily a club, either, although that was the closest classification that the IRS could come up with.
For everything it offered its female clientele, it might have been more along the lines of a spa or a really convoluted escape room.
The Place – that’s all anyone ever called it – specialized in experiences. Specifically, sexual experiences that may be considered, well, outside the normal. Everything was perfectly discreet, so everyone could play without the usual reservations with which society shackles us.
Rumors abounded, of course.
Stories swirled through the grapevine, of outrageous depravities that occurred in the depths of the old brownstone building. Sexual depravities that the women paid hearty sums to experience in a safe environment.
Bondage, pain. Slavery, ownership, manacles and chains. Every flavor of degradation and humiliation. If it wasn’t already on the menu, the Place took special requests, for the right price.
It had turned out to be a very lucrative business.
Naturally, there was a rather stringent process for admittance; women had to work their way through the ranks, so to speak, before they’d be allowed to buy the harder experiences. Each experience was more expensive than the last, but strangely, there was no shortage of women that happily shelled out, once they had a taste of what the Place could offer them.
Even the audience was well-vetted, those that chose to watch but not participate. Discretion was key, and the waivers and disclaimers were as solid as the lawyers could make them. Everyone wore masks like some old time masquerade ball, and phones were checked at the door.
Much like the participants, there was no shortage of audience, either.
Had the paid experiences not paid for the Place ten times over, the liquor sales to the voyeurs would have.
Exactly how the Place kept itself mostly a secret – only the owners knew that.
As soon as I swiped my credit card – trying not to mentally calculate how many hours at my tedious office job I had to trade for this – the woman behind the counter smiled blandly at me. Her nondescript brown eyes blinked slowly behind the black eye mask that I recognized as part of the employee uniform here.
“Thank you for your purchase. Locker rooms are down the hall, to your right.” She slid a combination lock across the counter. “You’re expected at the door tonight. Please be prompt, as we do not want you to miss out on any portion of your experience with us.” Another bland smile, to match the tone of her voice.
I took the lock and padded down the hallway, which looked more like a corporate hotel than anything else. The locker room was done in creams and beiges, and as I slid my hands over the sink, it felt like real marble.
What was I doing here?
The question plagued me. As I undressed and placed my belongings into an unoccupied locker – that took me a while to find, making me wonder how many other women they had here tonight – I asked myself again and again.
Why was I doing this?
I swallowed dryly.
Because I was so bored.
I was so bored with everything sex that I felt this was my last option. Of course it felt odd – dirty – to pay for sex like this, but I was out of ideas.
But it wasn’t really sex I was paying for, was it?
I blushed, thinking about what I had paid for tonight. Okay, it wasn’t sex. It wasn’t even sex-adjacent. Not really.
A wave of self recrimination swept through me, and I almost packed my stuff back up and walked out.
But no. I couldn’t. Not when I’d gotten this far.
They promised discretion – guaranteed it. I had picked the least expensive option on the lowest tier of the experience menu. But, then again, I hadn’t really had much of a choice as a newcomer. The higher tiers were reserved for those who’d been here longer, with deeper pockets.
A thought fumbled through my mind: I hope this wasn’t some sort of weird cult.
No, that’d be too ridiculous. This Place has enough ridiculous rumors surrounding it that one more just pushed it into the absurd. A cult? That’d be too much.
Still, I thought, as I clicked the lock shut and walked naked over to the sinks. Still – it’s a little bit of an odd set-up, isn’t it? Not odd, just capitalism. That is, capitalizing on an untapped market of desperate women.
I looked at myself in the round mirror hung over the sink. I wasn’t beautiful, but pretty enough. My hair grazed my shoulders and my stomach was only a little bit soft. Hips that were too wide to be trendy, and small breasts that hadn’t begun to sag. I ran my hands over my pussy, waxed smooth over my lunch break today. I teased between my lips, shivering at how wet it’d be by the end of the night. Very wet.
I hadn’t signed up for fucking. It hadn’t been an option available to me, but now I wish it had been. In the morning, I’d go home, unfulfilled. I clenched involuntarily at the thought.
What was wrong with me?
It was like some insidious refrain in my head, as I washed my hands.
It doesn’t matter, I argued with myself. I was here, and I was going to enjoy myself, goddammit.
I swallowed my insecurities and went back toward the door.
A flush of goosebumps crawled over my skin as I reentered the somewhat public area of the Place; I wasn’t used to being nude, much less for the prying eyes of all the masked attendees slowly sipping their drinks at the little round tables in the lounge area. I fought to control the urge to cover myself with my hands, then remembered that it had been a strongly worded suggestion in one of the documents I had signed – this is a safe place, so enjoy yourself.
This was a safe place. No one would touch me here, if I hadn’t agreed to it.
Still, the open stares unnerved me. Again, I found myself swallowing at nothing, my breathing quick and shallow.
There was almost a feeling of relief as I approached the entrance. There was a counter that served as a coat and phone check room, and a burly looking bouncer hunched with a clipboard on a small stool.
He turned and looked at me, wearing his own black mask. “Good, you’re here. Kneel right here; you have the option of opening your mouth, or not. If you’d prefer, I can get a ring gag.”
I blushed, I couldn’t help it. A ring gag?
Did I want a ring gag?
I ground my jaw, kneeling into the position he had indicated. Did I want a ring gag?
Part of my brain screamed yes, but part of me still hesitated.
I shivered, thinking about how helpless I’d feel with the metal keeping my mouth open. A tiny moan escaped my lips, as my blush grew hotter, and I stared at the floor beneath me.
This is a safe place. You’re safe, here. Enjoy your experience to the fullest.
You know what? Fuck it. Yes, I did want it.
I looked up at the bouncer. “Yes, please. I’d like the ring gag, please.”
He gave a curt nod before hefting his body toward the counter. A few words were exchanged with the masked girl there, before he returned with a ring gag on a black leather strap. He positioned it between my teeth, drawing my jaw apart so it was almost painful, before buckling the strap behind my head.
I moaned as I felt the tightness of the leather, and he tipped my face up with his big fingers.
“Did you sign up for praise or insults?” he asked.
I blushed. “Insults,” I tried to say, though the last half of the word was lost to the gag.
A smile crept across his cheeks. “Fucking slut. Keep your face up and ready.”
I nodded, tears already burning the corners of my eyes.
He sat back down just as two people walked through the door. They were wearing red masks, which I knew meant they were here to watch. They gave the bouncer their names, he made a note on his clipboard before muttering something about the phone check. It sounded like a sentence that he had repeated hundreds of times before.
My heart sped as the couple approached my kneeling position. I looked up at them, my mouth held open and my cheeks burning from embarrassment.
The first man spit directly into my open mouth, and I moaned.
The second one spit, and it landed on the bridge of my nose, slowly dripping into the hollow of my eye socket. My hips bucked slowly, as I felt their saliva ooze down my face and down my throat.
The feeling was… delicious. Degrading. Humiliating.
I loved it.
My pussy clenched, and I would have grinned if I had not been gagged.
Yes, the gag was absolutely the right choice.
“Did you like that?” the bouncer asked me, when the two attendees had cleared the entrance area.
I nodded and blushed harder.
“Good. We are expecting about 500 people tonight, so you should be good and covered with spit by closing time.”
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