Chapter 1 #2
But the itch for something else crawls up my skin.
Drumming my fingers on the desk, I try to ignore the urge.
It grows too strong anyway. Clicking off my computer, I walk down the hall of offices, noticing they’re all empty now.
Jack goes home to his family at six every night now.
Phoenix mostly works from home as it is.
Elizabeth might be backstage with the dancers.
That leaves me and Weston as the only two owners left, and he’s behind the bar.
Descending the stairs alone, I take stock of the small crowd tonight. It’s Wednesday and still early, so the few patrons is expected.
The main floor of the club is innocent. It has a bar, some chairs for mingling.
Even a modest dance floor if they want to use it.
The vibe in here is so much fresher than it was before, since my sister put her youthful spin to the design.
The room is bathed in sweet fuchsia light.
The furniture is delicate with shades of pink, gold, and black, making it a mix of femininity and opulence, far less intimidating to guests.
It’s the lower, basement level where the debauchery takes place.
A tall man is stationed by the stairs and elevator, checking membership cards before anyone is allowed to enter.
Technically, they have to show them at the front door too.
We’re not exclusive by class or wealth, but we are exclusive by character and candor.
There is a small interview process for those looking to gain membership, and it’s created an environment of people who actually want to be here for the right reasons.
They respect the lifestyle and are here to learn and connect.
I dragged my feet on a lot of these changes, mostly because back then, I couldn’t bear to watch Jack succeed at yet another venture. He makes it all look so effortless, so I shoved my foot in the door, making this club just a little harder on him than I should have.
Which is funny really since the whole reason I agreed to that one-year deal my father proposed was to impress him and show him how much I could do. Instead, I tried to drag down his godson.
In the end, we actually ended up seeing eye to eye. My biggest rival turned into…a friend. It turns out when two hotheaded, stubborn assholes actually put their heads together instead of constantly fighting, they can do amazing things.
If only this unrelenting need to impress everyone and prove my worth would just ease up a little. No one has made any moves to kick me off the team, but I can’t seem to relax. I will not rest until this club is perfect and I have proven myself indispensable.
After a quick elevator ride downstairs, I step foot in the sex club itself. The design is much like upstairs with an edge. Bright pink graffiti on dark painted walls. Can lights behind a petite burlesque stage. A dark obsidian surface bar with a black crystal chandelier.
There’s a woman dancing onstage, one I don’t recognize.
She’s grinding to the music on a chair in nothing but a dark lace thong and a pair of red high-heeled boots.
My attention is caught on the perfect shape and bounce of her tits.
I don’t feel ashamed for the way watching her dance goes straight to my cock, creating a warm electric buzz behind my zipper.
That’s what she’s dancing for. Everyone is watching her.
The idea is that when they come down here, they are in a perpetual state of arousal. Either from the low bass beat of the music or the dancers onstage or the small crowd of people fucking on the dance floor.
It’s not about getting off. It’s about feeling alive. It’s about desire and yearning, like animals awakened by the craving for sex.
Mesmerized by the dancer, I don’t notice the woman approaching me from my right. When she whispers my name, I finally tear my eyes from the girl onstage.
“Julian,” she says again.
Turning toward her, unease builds in my gut.
“élodie,” I reply tersely. There’s panic in her eyes, and I get a sense of paranoia with how close she’s standing to me.
She’s still in her burlesque costume, her dancing shoes clicking against the hard floor as she shuffles nervously.
Taking her arm in my hand, I gently guide her toward a discreet corner where we can talk.
“I’m sorry to do this at work,” she whispers.
“What’s wrong?” I snap with a hint of impatience. If anyone saw us talking here alone, it would look incredibly inappropriate. People would assume I’m fucking one of the dancers. Or worse…that we’re friends.
“étienne is sick.” Tears fill her eyes, and it makes my jaw clench. “And I don’t know what to do.”
“So take him to the doctor. What are you telling me for?”
“I did, but I couldn’t miss work, so I had to hire someone to watch him. It’s been three days now, and it’s costing me so much. I hate to ask, Julian. I’m sorry.”
The way she pleads strikes a chord in my chest. She’s not asking me as her boss. She’s asking me as her friend. I could tell her to handle it or to ask someone else. This isn’t my problem.
Except it is.
Letting out a sigh, I give her a comforting nod. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my wallet. Slipping out some euros, I pass them to her and look around to be sure no one is watching us.
She cries when her hand closes around the money. “Thank you so much, Julian.”
“Please don’t thank me,” I mumble, glancing behind me again. “Are you giving him medicine?”
“Yes. He’s on day three of his antibiotiques, but his fever won’t stop coming back, and his ears still hurt.”
My nostrils flare, thinking about the poor kid suffering. “Fuck.” I pull my phone from my pocket and search up my family doctor’s information. “Listen to me, élodie. Call this doctor, and take étienne to him. Do not tell him that you know me. Just say that you work with Amelia, understand?”
She nods eagerly as I text her the phone number.
“Do it tomorrow. Don’t wait.” My commands are snappy and harsh, but élodie is used to me by now. It hardly fazes her anymore.
“Thank you again, Julian. Honestly, you—”
Putting up a hand, I stop her right there. “I said to stop thanking me.” My skin crawls from the awkward attention. When she opens her mouth, I cut her off again. “And do not apologize. Take the rest of the week off. Don’t worry about your paycheck. I’ll make sure you get it. Just get him better.”
Pasting a steely, cold expression on my face, I furrow my brow and shove my hands in my pockets. After wiping her tears, élodie gives me a knowing smirk that I ignore. Then, ignoring my standoffish presence, she quickly plants a kiss on my cheek and runs off toward the backstage entrance.
Biting back my smile, I wipe the kiss from my face.
Standing alone in the back, I watch the club like a hawk perched on the edge of a field. This place has become my home in the past year. Granted, I’ve been coming here since I turned eighteen, but I treated it like my playground then.
Since then, it’s turned into more. I’m comfortable here.
My well-designed armor keeps me at a distance, so I’m at liberty to be and do whatever I’d like.
It means sex without judgment or strings.
It means scratching that emotional itch without the burden of vulnerability.
I can find a person here, anyone really, and feel close to them for one brief moment without ever having to expose an ounce of my soul.
They can touch me, but they can’t know me.
And there’s something so inherently magical about that.
When I’m confident that no one is watching or paying me any attention, I move toward the back wall of the club where a grid of black bars is fastened to the plaster.
It’s darkest back here, although there is constant security and surveillance to ensure everyone’s safety.
But that’s the idea. Darkness means anonymity. And anonymity means freedom.
That low buzz of arousal is still present, and my cock is still thick and swollen in my pants. It would take me just a moment to get what I need.
There are currently three people strapped to the back wall, one of whom is currently occupied. Each of the people is holding a scarf in their hand; the scarf conveys consent. The moment it leaves their fingers, consent is revoked and security is alerted.
There is a dark-haired woman I don’t recognize pressed face-first against the wall. She has one hand in the leather cuff and the other gripping the bars, waiting for someone to take what she is offering. In only a short miniskirt, heels, and a lacy bra, she looks delicious and mine for the taking.
My tongue darts out between my lips to lick the lower one before I glance around me once more for anyone I might know. No one is looking. So I step into the darkness.
Back here, no one can see me. I am just a figure in the shadows. Exactly how it was designed to be.
She lets out a soft hum when she feels my body press against hers. My movements are rushed as I kiss her neck, tasting her perfume-scented skin, devouring her gentle moans. Her ass sticks out to feel me while I frantically unbutton my pants and fist my cock.
I won’t fuck her, not without a condom, which are mandatory, and I don’t have time for that. But I can at least get the release I need. This curt connection to another human being contained within an anonymous interaction is what fuels me.
Grinding my cock against her ass, we both groan in pleasure. She’s writhing, her hands never leaving the wall as I seek out a hard friction against her ass. Her hips are in my hands as I grind and kiss her roughly.
My fingers roam to the front of her body, pinching her nipples through her bra, and when she yelps from the hint of pain, I feel one step closer to my hurried release.
We don’t utter a word, and I never once look into her eyes. That’s not what either of us want. It’s not called the polite greeting wall; it’s called the free use wall, and that’s exactly how we intend to use it.
With my orgasm just on the horizon, I grind rougher and faster against her ass, squeezing her tits harder and kissing her aggressively on the neck to the sounds of her mewling cries.
In the corner of my eye, I keep that scarf in my periphery when I finally start to climax.
Just before my cum has a chance to dirty her pretty little outfit, I snatch a handkerchief out of my pocket and catch my release in it.
The entire thing only took about five minutes, but that’s perfect.
I don’t know this woman; she never got a good look at my face, and she never will.
Before she can even turn around, I’m gone.
The dirty handkerchief is shoved in my pocket, and my deflating cock is already hidden behind the zipper of my pants.
She didn’t come, a fact that I will overthink about for the rest of the night. Even if that’s not what she was offering. She wasn’t offering her pleasure. The point of binding herself to the free use wall wasn’t to get off…it’s to render her body so someone else can.
And yet…I’ll still feel like shit about it.
But like I said, it’s not about the climax. If that was all I wanted, I would just jack off in my office or the shower. But for one brief encounter, I had a woman in my hands. I felt her writhing and panting with pleasure.
For just a moment, I wasn’t alone.
And not once did I have to let her in enough to see that behind the perfect, chain-mail designer clothes and dashing good looks is an imperfect man.