Chapter 16
NIA
M y fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the hem on my dress. Tug it down, smooth it out, pull it up, rinse and repeat. I don’t know why I bought a dress for this. It isn’t like I’ll be staying long; I just…need to see it with my own eyes.
Moving my over-anxious hands to the small crossbody bag hanging over my shoulder, I twist the clasp. Left, right, left, right. Open, shut, open, shut. I can feel eyes on me, and I’m almost certain that their owners can tell that I’ve never been here before.
That I don’t belong here.
That I’m not one of them .
The thought of that is a little more than terrifying.
“Ma’am?”
My eyes move to the man standing in front of me, wearing a nicely-tailored suit and an expectant smile as he holds his open palm to me. I wonder how long he’s been trying to get my attention.
Lifting the flap of my bag, I pull out my wallet and slip my ID card from its slot, handing it to him. He scans over each side with a flashlight and inclines his head toward my bag as he hands my card back to me, and I let him look inside – which feels like a total invasion of my privacy and personal space.
“Membership card?”
“I— uh— I don’t have one…”
My hands return to their nervous fidgeting, bringing a burning flush to the apples of my cheeks.
“You won’t be able to rent a room without a card, but you’re free to enjoy the bar and the areas open to the public,” he smiles. “The safe word is ‘strongbox.’ Enjoy the event.”
Safe word.
That article flashes through my mind: Safe Words: Do They Really Matter?
What really is a safe word? A ‘safe word’ is a crutch, relied upon by those who have a weak constitution. A ‘safe word’ gives your submissive power over you that they don’t deserve.
I’m not sure what I expected it to be like inside. A bunch of weirdos in leather masks and covered in bodily fluids, maybe? Whatever I expected, it wasn’t this. I didn’t think that I would walk into a classy-looking space with comfortable seating, conversations taking place at a respectful volume, and…very beautiful people.
I didn’t expect a bartender dressed in a button-down and a vest, with his hair slicked back and a bright, friendly smile on his face. I expected…grime. I expected depravity. I expected grotesqueness.
“Can I get you something to drink?” He asks me. “It’s two, max, if it’s got proof to it.”
“White wine, please,” I say shyly, tapping my fingers along the bar with one hand while the other clutches my purse firmly against my body.
What possessed me to come here? What answers am I really going to get? It isn’t like finding out more about this place or these people is going to fix my marriage. It won’t undo the things that my husband has done. It won’t heal my wounds to see the place in which he met the real love of his life.
I should turn around and leave right now. I should just go home and chalk this up to being one big, curious mistake and forget about it in the morning.
Yet, when the wine is sent across the bar to me, I pluck the glass by its stem and take a small sip, letting it warm my throat before turning to walk through the room.
Many of the people here are paired off, or together in groups. A woman stands in front of a windowed wall that looks into a massive bedroom, speaking about the club and how it runs. I don’t pay attention to her. My eyes wander across the room and the people within it, all of them bathed under a warm red light.
It would almost feel romantic, if it weren’t so perverse.
One woman sits facing a couch in front of a man who has his back to me. She’s kneeling on the floor in front of him with her palms on her knees. She isn’t looking at him, nor he at her, from what I can see. Her breasts are bare and she’s wearing a skirt that is too short to even cover her properly.
It looks humiliating.
And yet, when he extends a hand to her and strokes his thumb over her jaw, she seems to squirm as if that simple touch is the only thing in the world that she wants.
My fingers move to my face to lightly graze the skin of my own jaw.
The man seemingly ignores her beyond that, turning his head toward someone else on the couch, but she doesn’t mind. It’s like she enjoys it. Doesn’t that feel degrading? Doesn’t that bother her? I have half the mind to go over there and tell her that she deserves to be treated better than this.
To stand up and make him appreciate her.
“Trying to figure out where to start?” The woman who was speaking earlier asks, appearing at my side like a phantom.
A red latex dress clings to her body like skin, shining beneath the lights above us. Her chin-length hair is loosely curled and pinned back at one side, drawing attention to the mischievous curve of her plump lips.
“Oh,” I stammer, “no, I’m not— I don’t—”
“Relax, love,” she chuckles. “Everyone in this room was a newcomer at some point.”
“I’m not staying,” I tell her nervously. “I just— I should go. I don’t know what I was looking for here, but…”
“Maybe you’re looking for a piece of yourself,” she shrugs with a smile, stepping away from me as her hand glides down my arm, wrapping around my wrist.
“Is that what you found here?”
“I knew who I was when I opened this place,” she tells me, pulling me along with her. “I wanted other people to have a safe place to find out who they are, too.”
She leads me through the room, down one of the hallways and past a series of doorways, some of which are open with green lights next to them, others which are closed, their lights red. One set of double doors lies at the end of the hall, and we don’t go through them. She says something about ‘culture shock’ before pulling me away.
“Consent and communication are key here,” she explains to me as we walk. “If you want to play with someone, or if you’d like to watch, get consent first. If you ever feel unsafe or compromised, find one of us,” she says with a tap to the gold angel wing and halo pin above her breast, a symbol that seems to represent the club, “and say ‘strongbox.’ We’ll take care of the rest.”
“You use a safe word,” I comment.
“Absolutely. Safe words are the bedrock of our entire community. Without them, people can get hurt – and I don’t just mean physically.”
We pass down another hall, this one adorned with the same signage that I saw the entrance; something about RACK. I don’t ask about it. I’m not sure that I want the answer.
After our walk together, she leads me back in the direction of the bar. I stop in my tracks as I finally face the man seated on the couch; the one with woman on her knees, seeming to worship him.
“What’s up, love?” The woman asks. She follows my eye line, drawing a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, that’s—”
“ Brody? ”
“You know each other,” she smirks.
Hazel eyes widen and snap to mine as the glass in his hand drops, spilling water all over his leg and the bare-chested woman on the floor. She gasps at the cold and stands, brushing the water off of her skin, and Brody bolts upright from his seat, taking a stumbling step toward me.
“What are you doing here?” He asks.
“I thought I knew, but—” my eyes move between him and the woman that he was… “I’m leaving.”
“Nia,” he calls out, following my steps which are already leading away from him.
Tapping the owner of the club on the shoulder, I point to Brody and whisper, “Strongbox.”