Different just means…special.
That’s what Knox and Dad tell me, but the problem lies in believing them.
This club is different. It’s more than different; it’s an open door to many things I never thought were possible.
And now, I won’t only be watching — I’ll participate.
Not exhibition-style, though. I applied for a private session because, well, I might like to watch, but being watched is a different thing altogether. It means being bare, and I don’t like that.
The attendant, wearing a maid’s outfit and a mask, motions at a room. “Through here, Ms 115.”
I walk past her. The room has the same black wallpaper and red carpets. There’s no window like the other rooms I participated in, no bed or sofa, not even a chair.
The attendant reaches her hand out. “Have you filled out the form, Ms 115?”
“Uh…yeah.” I finally release the acceptance letter that has the form attached to it from between my sweaty fingers.
The form is a checklist about what I won’t allow and what I’m good with. I’m not good with anal, flogs, crops, any extreme pain, or being tied down, and that’s it.
I wanted to ask for a thirty or forty-something man, but they didn’t have an age option. However, all I’ve seen so far is older men who know how to handle a woman. La Débauche attracts a specific type of dominant males who have been in this depravity game for far too long.
“Do you want to review it one last time?” she asks.
“I-I’m okay.” Shit. Why the hell am I stammering? I wanted this. It’s my last chance at normal before I pass the point of no return.
She hands me a black blindfold. “As you requested.”
I take it from her with trembling fingers. “Thank you.”
“Please wait for Mr 120 on your knees.” I nod, and she smiles. “I wish you a lovely night.”
And with that, the door clicks closed behind her.
With one last breath, I sink to my knees on the thick red carpet, gripping the blindfold like it’s a lifeline.
Considering what happened in the past, this is the last thing I should do, but oddly enough, the moment I wrap the blindfold around my eyes, turning my world black, a sense of clarity falls over me.
I don’t think of Dad, Knox, or even Agnus, and what they would feel if they saw me in this position. I only think about those scenes I watched, the anonymity of it, the throbbing tension and that need for more.
Therapy didn’t work, so maybe this will. It’s a different type of therapy — the titillating kind.
The door opens, its click loud and deafening in the silence of the room. My breathing quickens as the air fills with another presence.
I don’t see him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel him.
Just like in the past.
I inhale through my nose and exhale through clenched teeth. This is different. This time, I consent to it.
This time, I want it.
Is it sick to want something that used to terrify the fuck out of me?
Or maybe it’s sick that I’ve run after it ever since I realised what sex is all about.
The presence stops in front of me. I don’t move even as I feel his shadow falling over me.
It’s strange how the other senses kick into gear when sight is gone. I think people don’t understand just how important your eyes are.
Now that my world is black, I hear every pulse in my ear and feel each breath going into and coming out of my lungs, and I sink into the scraping of the gown against my bare skin. As per the club’s policies, I’m wearing nothing underneath, and because of that, the buds of my nipples strain against the cloth. I have no doubt they’re visible for him.
Does he like it? Appreciate it?
For some reason, I can’t smell him. I do smell myself though — the lime scent. No idea why it feels like it’s coming from him, too.
Does he also smell of lime and citrus?
A hand falls on my shoulder, and I stiffen, my old signs trying to push against the intrusion. I breathe deeply, camouflaging that need.
It’s big, his hand, but it’s not calloused, just slightly so. It feels like the type of hand that will soon flip me over and fuck me against the ground.
Shit.
Why do I want that?
It’s too fast even for me, and yet there’s this unusual longing for Mr 120’s touch. Could be because of the blindfold or how good his skin feels on mine.
He slips the gown’s strap down my shoulder, the touch slow and sensual. For a second, I hold my breath, unable to stifle the pleasurable sensation crawling up my throat.
As he does the same with my other strap, my breasts slip out with a gentle bounce. They’re heavy and aching, and…strange. I’ve never had my breasts hurt this much, and he hasn’t even touched them yet.
It’s the anticipation.
The sick, thrilling anticipation.
Those same fingers clutch my jaw and lift it so I’m staring up — or my blindfolded eyes are anyway. The easy way he handles me is a sign of experience. He must’ve done this a thousand times before. I instantly feel safe at that thought.
His fingers trail down my neck, pausing at my collarbone to squeeze slightly. I stop breathing for a second, my thighs pressing together.
God. He’s only touching my collarbone and I’m ready to spread my legs wide for him.
He cups my breasts with both hands, and I purse my lips, trying to keep in the foreign sound that’s trying to escape.
The pads of his thumbs run over the tips and I jolt in place as a zap of pleasure shoots straight between my legs.
Holy. Shit.
Is that supposed to feel that good? He’s merely touching my nipples — that’s all. Just touching them. He’s not twirling or squeezing or anything.
I’ve always had sensitive nipples, but this is a new level.
He twists the tight buds. This time, I can’t hold in the sound, and I let the moan fall free in the silence of the room.
I don’t even know what’s happening to me, but my back arches, pushing my breasts into his expert hands.
Pinching one nipple, he teases the other with a feathery touch. It’s so soft and yet so damn painful. I never thought nipple play could get this unbearable or out of control.
It’s like I’m losing all common sense and my body only listens to this stranger’s ministrations.
My belly dips and an odd type of stickiness coats my thighs.
Am I…wet?
How on earth did that happen? And what the hell is this sweeping sensation forming at the bottom of my stomach?
He twists both nipples again, making me whimper and squirm. He goes back to the gentle caress just to pinch again. My pussy stings and I’m tempted to reach out and touch that ache.
The moment I do, he stops his ministrations.
No, no.
Why did he…oh, is it because I’m touching myself?
“I-I’ll be good,” I murmur, my voice so sexual it almost doesn’t sound like mine.
I let my hands drop to my sides again. He makes no sound or move, and I start to think I ruined the whole thing.
But then he returns to torturing my nipples. With each brush of his skin against mine and every cruel pinch, I moan aloud.
It’s too raw, too real.
Just too much.
He squeezes my nipples one more time, and my moan breaks into something so utterly foreign I stop making sounds altogether for a second.