Beautiful Beloved
Page 28
“I’m Trin,” she said, smiling in welcome. “You must be Mr. Stella.”
I fucked my wife for everyone to see in this club. It seemed a little odd to be so formal. “Max, please.”
“Lovely to meet you.” She gestured to the heavy steel door that would lead into the club itself. “Mr. French is very much looking forward to having you and Mrs. Stella back in the rotation.”
I smiled, arching a brow. “The pony play and multiple ménage scenarios are growing a little tired?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I think the regulars like your story,” she said. “It’s sweet. It’s different from everything else we get in here.”
And of course it was. What other married couple would let their most intimate moments play out in such stark display for complete strangers? Who else would invite the world into their sex life?
But being back here, even in this unfamiliar anteroom to the main event, felt deliciously surreal. I could smell the mix of wood polish and leather emanating from the other room. I could hear the faint beat of music pounding through the enormous door. It was a sensory trigger for me, being here, knowing how Sara would get off on being watched, and how I would get off on watching her bloom. It never ceased to amaze me that her greatest turn-on was exhibition, given that in our everyday life she was beautiful but unassuming, brilliant but endlessly humble.
“How’s the baby?” Trin asked, pulling my attention away from the door and back to her face.
“She’s brilliant, yeah,” I said, feeling my grin split my face. “Home with my brother.”
Her eyebrows rose wickedly. “You have a brother?”
“I do,” I said through a laugh. “He’s tall, a genius, and has enough repressed sexual energy to power this club. I should give you his number.”
Trin tilted her head before finding a card in the top drawer of her desk with her name and phone number. “Give him this.” She turned and gestured that I lead us to the door. “Mrs. Stella is inside. I don’t want to keep you.”
Through the door, the club opened into a large main room, dimly lit with wall sconces and lined with a lavish, intricate wallpaper of subtle stripes and swirls. Velvet curtains hung beside a number of small alcoves surrounding low tables, making the entire room feel both lavish and faintly medieval. A small bar stood in the corner, where I remembered, but the design of the room had been modified so that the stage was directly in the center, rather than jutting into the floor from one far end of the expansive space.
Sara was tucked into an alcove in the middle of one long wall, sipping a cocktail and looking surprisingly comfortable all on her own here. She watched the show—a woman stripping to a slow beat while a man behind her was tied naked to a chair.
It was surreal how quickly my brain switched from the daily reality of diapers and investors, bottles and contracts, to the present reality of a private—and rather illegal—space where only the most well-connected and wealthy clients came to indulge their darkest voyeuristic fantasies. It didn’t seem odd that the woman performing was stripped down to a long string of pearls hanging heavily between her small breasts, or that the man had begun quietly begging for pleasure. All around us, people sipped drinks and talked in low voices or simply sat and watched the main show, waiting for the individual rooms to open for the audience.
There were six other rooms in this club, connected to the main room by a long hallway. The setup was simple: each room had a different scene to watch, with tables outside a window looking in. Clients could have drinks while enjoying a perfect view of some of the darkest, sweetest, and filthiest fantasies come to life.
Some of the performers in the club were regulars—experienced Doms, Broadway performers with exhibitionist leanings earning some good money on the side, or dancers who were willing to try anything—and some were vague acquaintances of Johnny who had begged him for the opportunity to perform at the prestigious club. Sara and I were the only friends of his granted a consistent time slot: Wednesday nights were ours in Room Six for as long as we wanted.
Though we never took money—unlike a few others who “performed” at the club—Wednesday night in Room Six grew to be one of the most popular acts in the place, and quite a profitable show for Johnny. The only reason Sara and I knew this, however, was that he told us. We never saw a single face in our audience; other than our first night and until tonight, we’d only ever come into the club through the back entrance.
And just on my short walk from the front door to the table, I could feel the rustle of movement, the way people sat up straight in realization. I could feel the subtle gestures, the quiet whisper of They’re back.
I fucked my wife for everyone to see in this club. It seemed a little odd to be so formal. “Max, please.”
“Lovely to meet you.” She gestured to the heavy steel door that would lead into the club itself. “Mr. French is very much looking forward to having you and Mrs. Stella back in the rotation.”
I smiled, arching a brow. “The pony play and multiple ménage scenarios are growing a little tired?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I think the regulars like your story,” she said. “It’s sweet. It’s different from everything else we get in here.”
And of course it was. What other married couple would let their most intimate moments play out in such stark display for complete strangers? Who else would invite the world into their sex life?
But being back here, even in this unfamiliar anteroom to the main event, felt deliciously surreal. I could smell the mix of wood polish and leather emanating from the other room. I could hear the faint beat of music pounding through the enormous door. It was a sensory trigger for me, being here, knowing how Sara would get off on being watched, and how I would get off on watching her bloom. It never ceased to amaze me that her greatest turn-on was exhibition, given that in our everyday life she was beautiful but unassuming, brilliant but endlessly humble.
“How’s the baby?” Trin asked, pulling my attention away from the door and back to her face.
“She’s brilliant, yeah,” I said, feeling my grin split my face. “Home with my brother.”
Her eyebrows rose wickedly. “You have a brother?”
“I do,” I said through a laugh. “He’s tall, a genius, and has enough repressed sexual energy to power this club. I should give you his number.”
Trin tilted her head before finding a card in the top drawer of her desk with her name and phone number. “Give him this.” She turned and gestured that I lead us to the door. “Mrs. Stella is inside. I don’t want to keep you.”
Through the door, the club opened into a large main room, dimly lit with wall sconces and lined with a lavish, intricate wallpaper of subtle stripes and swirls. Velvet curtains hung beside a number of small alcoves surrounding low tables, making the entire room feel both lavish and faintly medieval. A small bar stood in the corner, where I remembered, but the design of the room had been modified so that the stage was directly in the center, rather than jutting into the floor from one far end of the expansive space.
Sara was tucked into an alcove in the middle of one long wall, sipping a cocktail and looking surprisingly comfortable all on her own here. She watched the show—a woman stripping to a slow beat while a man behind her was tied naked to a chair.
It was surreal how quickly my brain switched from the daily reality of diapers and investors, bottles and contracts, to the present reality of a private—and rather illegal—space where only the most well-connected and wealthy clients came to indulge their darkest voyeuristic fantasies. It didn’t seem odd that the woman performing was stripped down to a long string of pearls hanging heavily between her small breasts, or that the man had begun quietly begging for pleasure. All around us, people sipped drinks and talked in low voices or simply sat and watched the main show, waiting for the individual rooms to open for the audience.
There were six other rooms in this club, connected to the main room by a long hallway. The setup was simple: each room had a different scene to watch, with tables outside a window looking in. Clients could have drinks while enjoying a perfect view of some of the darkest, sweetest, and filthiest fantasies come to life.
Some of the performers in the club were regulars—experienced Doms, Broadway performers with exhibitionist leanings earning some good money on the side, or dancers who were willing to try anything—and some were vague acquaintances of Johnny who had begged him for the opportunity to perform at the prestigious club. Sara and I were the only friends of his granted a consistent time slot: Wednesday nights were ours in Room Six for as long as we wanted.
Though we never took money—unlike a few others who “performed” at the club—Wednesday night in Room Six grew to be one of the most popular acts in the place, and quite a profitable show for Johnny. The only reason Sara and I knew this, however, was that he told us. We never saw a single face in our audience; other than our first night and until tonight, we’d only ever come into the club through the back entrance.
And just on my short walk from the front door to the table, I could feel the rustle of movement, the way people sat up straight in realization. I could feel the subtle gestures, the quiet whisper of They’re back.
