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He takes my hand in his again and leads me around the front to the line at the door. It’s not long— from what Mason said, this place is invitation only.
We hand our ticket to the bouncer and he checks our IDs like he’s doing background checks for the FBI before he lets us in. I suppose it’s a good thing they’re so careful, but I’m still embarrassed that he knowsI’mcoming to a sex club.
God, maybe Britt is right. I am a prude.
As soon as he opens the door for us and I step inside, I’m ready to step right back out.
The first thing to hit me is the scent. Sickly sweet perfume and cologne mixed with an underlying aroma of body odor and sex.
The first thing I see? “
A dick, hanging freely in the wind surrounded by a pair of crotchless chaps and thick black pubes.
Ew.
Immediately, I spin around, covering my eyes and running smack into Mason’s chest, who just chuckles and pulls me against him.
“You’ve got to move, Hannah,” he murmurs, voice low in my ear. His hand presses at the center of my back and he steers me away from Free Willy toward a bar in the far corner and away from any wild penises that roam the rest of the room.
The lighting makes it look like Satan’s bedroom, as does the added fog hanging in the air.
On a stage near the center, a man is bent over, his head and hands locked in a pillory while a woman stands behind him, whipping him. Even though I’m pretty sure he’s bleeding, he still begs for more, the sounds of his cries being drowned out by the thumping music in the club.
A couple people are below them, watching with a weird look of sick pleasure and satisfaction on their faces and something uneasy stirs in my stomach.
Another stage shows a girl on a tarp getting peed on. That’s it. Just two men peeing on her and groaning like they’ve been holding it for hours.
That explains the smell.
Despite the darkness, it’s impossible not to see the various stages of sex happening all over the room. A threesome here. Afoursome there. Bodies move together like any other club, only at this one, there are hardly any clothes.
“Spit on me” some guy in an actual cage demands when we pass him, but he takes one look at Mason at my back and the possessive way his arm bands around my stomach and falls back in the cage. “Nevermind.”
Holy shit.
Mason leads me to a bar, ordering two drinks. I don’t even hear what he says. I’m too busy staring around the room like a creep.
Drugs flow as freely as the alcohol.
I feel like a peeping Tom, watching people in their most intimate moments. While I have no problem with these clubs if everyone consents to what’s happening to them, I have never once thought about coming to one.
Or coming in one.
Perhaps, that’s how Missy and I are different.
We may look a lot alike, but she’s far more adventurous than I am. I knew that. Now, I can see it.
“Here,” Mason says, handing me a shot glass. “It’ll help with the nerves.”
I don’t even ask what it is, I just swallow it whole, the smooth burn of vodka coating the length of my throat as it slides down. Mason watches me, keeping close. My brain is having a hard time remembering that he’s doing this for show and not because he wants to. His comfort only goes skin-deep.
“You look like you’re going to bolt at any moment, Hannah.”
“I’m really thinking about it.”
“Just try to blend in. You don’t have to do anything.”
“I don’twantto do anything.”
