PULLING UP TO THE UNDERGROUND PARKING GARAGE of a six-story building on one of Tribeca’s quieter and more sterile streets two and a half hours later, Cameron slows the car down to a stop twenty feet in front of a metal gate before us. I’m wearing the black lower-face mask that he told me to put on five minutes ago.
“Jessa, this place is toxic. I need you to understand that. We’ll go in, you look around, and then we leave. Is that clear?”
“Yes.” My voice falters slightly as I stare at the gate in front of me, wondering for a moment what mental defect I’m afflicted with that makes me need to journey into this dungeon.
“You’ll be wearing a mask so no one will recognize you. Not the one you have on now. A full-face mask. I won’t have anyone talk to you in there. Understood?”
“Yes,” I whisper, frowning at the four security cameras pointed in the direction of the driveway.
“We’ll stay in the mask-only area. You stay next to me at all times. If you want to leave, you tell me and we walk out calmly. This is not a place where you want to attract attention. Clear?”
“I’ll do whatever you say, Cameron.”
After pulling right up to the black gate which slides open with an unsettling clang, we take tight windy turns until we’ve gone down two levels. As we enter the third underground level, a second floor-to-ceiling metal gate looms before us and Cameron slows the car to a stop, the engine still humming.
A stocky man wearing a black suit and balaclava emerges from a side door—some kind of security guard by the looks of it. As he approaches the car purposefully, Cameron opens up his jacket to reveal that familiar gold broach pinned to the inside lining. The man makes a hand signal in the direction of a mirrored window to the left of the gate. A short-haired bespectacled brunette and two more tall men, all wearing the kind of black masks cyclists wear that cover their faces from just below the eyes down to their neck, emerge from a door next to the mirror and approach the car.
Cameron rolls the window down and the guards position themselves on either side, peering at us. The woman approaches confidently.
“Good evening, sir,” she purrs. “You have a guest?”
“Yes,” he says coldly. “We need total discretion.”
“Of course,” she responds. “I don’t believe you’ve paid a membership fee this year.”
“How much?”
She takes a pen from on top of a clipboard she’s carrying and writes something on a piece of thick card which she hands to Cameron. Cameron hands it back to her, reaches over to the glove compartment and opens it to reveal five large brown envelopes stuffed inside. He takes out three of them which from the look of them all contain substantial wads of cash. He hands them to her and she opens each one discreetly and glances inside.
“Enjoy your evening, sir,” the woman says, handing Cameron a small plastic card with the number 66 on it before heading swiftly back to the side door she came through where she turns and watches us. I jump in my seat as the heavy metal gate clangs open. The three security guards remain unmoving, staring at the car until Cameron drives to the other side of the gate.
The lower level behind the gate is divided into what look like individual garages, about seventy or so, lining all four walls of this expansive underground room. Cameron seems to know where he’s going as he turns right confidently, stopping in front of a black garage door adorned with the roman numerals LXVI. The door suddenly slides open to reveal a fully lit garage, totally featureless but for a metal door on the opposite side. We drive forward, the engine shutting down as the garage door closes behind us, sealing us in.
“Cam, I want to pay you back when we get out,” I say, though I know from past experiences, whether I’ve tried to pay for coffee, a movie or something more expensive, that the billionaire sitting next to me is unlikely to accept my offer.
“That won’t be happening,” he replies, swiveling his dense torso to face me. “You remember what I told you? Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t leave my side. Let me know as soon as you want to leave.”
“Yes.”
“Keep your mask on for now.”
After getting out of the car, I follow Cameron to the door at the back of the garage. He swipes the card the woman gave him through a card reader, but a red light appears and the door stays shut.
“Someone else must be in the corridor,” says Cameron. “They don’t let people bump into each other as they’re arriving or leaving.”
I shift nervously as we wait. It’s eerily quiet but for occasional distant thumps and bangs. He tries the card again. This time a green light allows Cameron to push the door open and we head through to a sparse corridor. The floor is hardwood and the walls are grey concrete and lined with black doors along the left side, presumably leading into and out of other garages.
I follow Cameron along the corridor until we reach a staircase at the end. We go up, open a door, walk some more and finally arrive at a pair of metal double doors.
“You’re sure you want to go in?” he asks. “It’s not too late to turn back.”
I stare at the door in front of me. There’s a palpable difference between wanting something and finally getting it, and right now I’m quite certain that every inch of my trembling body wants to run away from this ghoulish place as fast as my legs will carry me.
But I have to see it.
“I’m sure.”
He hands me the plastic card. “Swipe,” says Cameron firmly, gesturing towards a card reader to the right of the double doors.
My shaky hand swipes the card and the door buzzes open. As Cameron leads me through to the other side, we’re hit by the faint scent of incense accompanied by the murmur of music. Wooden doors stand along the left side of the corridor and we stop in front of one with a familiar number.
LXVI.
66.
After swiping the card through another card reader, Cameron pushes the door open to reveal a windowless room, about fifteen feet by twenty. There’s a soft glow courtesy of four imitation oil lamps fixed to the walls and an abstract brass sculpture of a supine naked woman lies on a table to the left. Rich wooden hardwood is met by ornate taupe and gold wallpaper. The beige ceiling is punctuated by two sprinklers and a studded chestnut chaise longue stands against the right-hand wall. Against the wall to the left are a shower and toilet cubicle, and two changing rooms with black velvet curtains face us at the back of the room.
Cameron removes his jacket with his usual effortless grace and places it onto the sofa before turning to face me, unlooping my mask from around my ear and taking it off me. He puts it in his pocket. “Jessynia, the things you’ll see on the other side of that door, you won’t be able to unsee. It took me several years to be able to close my eyes and not see this place.”
From the somber expression on his face, I realize that the things he has said about this place were not just for my benefit. They were not just some cheap attempt to make me think that he didn’t enjoy it, the way men tell their wives they didn’t enjoy that sneaky trip to the strip club they were caught at.
“Cam, I hope I’m not asking you to do something that’s bad for you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy. I’ll take you in there if it will erase Jack from your mind for good. That’s the only reason I would come back to this place.”
“It will, but I don’t want it to be at the expense of your well-being.”
“If you’re having second thoughts, we can leave now, but don’t use me as an excuse. I don’t do things I don’t want to do, ever.”
“Okay.”
“You need to put on the robe, and the mask.”
I scan the floor-length robes hanging on the wall of the changing room. “Over my clothes?”
“They don’t allow clothes. They will notice if you keep yours on.”
“Who may notice?”
“Security will be surveilling the place. They’ll pat you down before you go in. You’ll have to take your jacket, top and jeans off,” he advises, “as well as your shoes and socks.”
Glancing at the changing rooms, I see a phallic symbol—two straight lines with a triangle atop—carved into the top beam of the wooden frame of the changing room on the left and a rosebud on the frame to the right.
“Come on. You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
“Subtlety is not on the menu in this place. Get dressed.”
A crimson robe made of velvet hangs from a brass hook next to a thick burgundy mask made of leather. An antique-looking chair stands next to a small table on top of which sits a tigerwood box intricately engraved with the image of a tree. I trace my fingers over the sinewy grooves and tentatively open the box to find a sepia card with a message handwritten in ink.
Welcome to Quercus Velutina.
We wish you a pleasurable visit.
We would like to take this opportunity to remind you of our rules and regulations.
The privacy of our members is strictly guarded. Any attempt to communicate the existence of this Society to outsiders not pre-approved by the Council (unless the inviting member holds the status of Patron) will be met with consequences. Those that bring guests are responsible for the conduct of their guests. There are consequences for bringing guests who do not abide by the rules of our Society.
No electronic devices or weapons are allowed beyond this room. Visitors will be scanned for electronic devices and weapons before entering the Entertainment area.
All clothes including undergarments must be removed before entering. Jewelry is not permitted.
Members bearing tattoos or other distinguishing marks on their bodies must cover them with the garments provided in the draw or keep their robes on at all times.
Sheaths are provided and must be worn by male members when engaging in intercourse. Any member who attempts to circumvent this rule will be permanently banned from the Society.
Only members of a minimum status level of Patron will be permitted to visit the Mask-free areas. Masks cannot be removed inside the Red Zone (the entire lower floor) under any circumstances. Any members or guests who remove their full masks in the Red Zone will be removed from the premises and prohibited from returning. Any members or guests who attempt to remove the mask of another person will face the same consequences. Custom masks must be preapproved by the Council before being worn.
Only consensual acts are allowed in the Society unless in designated non-consensual areas. Security will verify sobriety and consent before allowing a member into non-consensual areas.
Consensual disciplining must not cause severe or permanent injury. A safe word must be established between participants before disciplining may commence.
Any injury caused inside this Society must be kept confidential and not shared with outside authorities. Any complaint of excessive injury must be addressed to the Council for arbitration.
The privacy of our members is of utmost importance. All measures will be taken to safeguard it.
We wish you a pleasurable visit.
The Council.
Blood rushes through my ears as I scan the regulations again.
Injury? Non-consensual? Consequences?
What the hell?
“What kind of place is this?” I mutter as I finish scanning the sheet for a second time.
I hear the curtain of Cameron’s changing room drag open, but remain seated—or paralyzed more like it—unable to get up to put the robe onto my body.
“Jess?”
I remain silent, my breathing quickening once again. Cameron pulls open the curtain of my changing room abruptly and stands before me wearing a long black robe with the hood still down. Despite my nerves, the sight of him sends an unwanted tremor through my body and I swallow hard.
“I was just reading the regulations,” I mumble, my voice wavering. “They’re… concerning.”
“You don’t have to worry. Nothing can happen to you as long as you’re with me and on the lower floor. It’s upstairs where things get messier. Just stay next to me all the time. Is that clear?”
I nod.
“Now stand up,” he orders, narrowing his eyes at me.
I find myself complying instantly. He unbuttons my grey jacket and takes it off me to reveal my loose white T-shirt over a cream bra and dark blue jeans.
“You have to remove your outer clothes. You can keep your T-shirt on, but not your bra. They will feel the clasp at the back otherwise.”
“Okay. Turn around.”
He turns and I pull down my jeans and take off my sandals before removing my T-shirt and undoing my bra which I take off. My T-shirt goes back on, albeit offering little support for my breasts. I reach for the berry-red robe, my arms delving tentatively into its thick folds until it envelops my whole body. It’s longer and heavier than I’d expected and as the fabric settles onto my skin, I realize that the front opening of the robe is lined with magnets hidden within the seams on either side which close the robe swiftly with a little positioning. A swift tug opens the seams, allowing easy access.
“Okay. I’m ready.”
Cameron turns around, slowly running his eyes over me, from the bottom of my robe all the way to the top, onto my lips before finally resting his fierce gaze onto my eyes.
“You need to remove your jewelry,” he says sternly. “They don’t allow it in case people recognize each other from it.”
I remove the tiny silver hoops from my ears along with my wedding and engagement rings, which for some reason I didn’t take off before coming here, placing them inside the ornate box. Cameron’s exquisite scent envelops me as he reaches around my neck to unfasten my delicate silver necklace and take it off me, his strong fingers brushing the soft skin on my neck as he does so.
Christ. He needs to stop having this effect on me.
I feel hyperaware of him with every inch of my body being drawn towards his in this cramped changing room. It’s a minute-by-minute effort not to be sucked in by the never-ending magnetic pull of his dense body.
He takes the burgundy mask off the hook and hands it to me, and I run my fingers over the exquisitely molded leather as Cameron scrutinizes me intently. The mask is thick and molded to look like an expressionless woman’s face. As my thumb caresses the curves, I notice a seam going across it and turn it around to see if the seam continues on the other side. Cameron takes the stiff mask out of my hand and pulls hard on the lower part. The bottom section of the mask, from the Cupid’s bow down and across to where the earlobes would be, detaches from the upper section. I study the two parts of the mask and see a thin line of small but clearly very strong magnets running along both seams. My lips part instinctively and I inhale with an audible breath as I realize that it’s detachable to allow you to use your mouth while keeping the rest of the mask on.
“Wow. Who designs this stuff?” I ask timidly, feeling bashful to be holding an object so obviously designed to facilitate fellatio in the presence of such an overtly masculine and confidently sexual man.
I wish I could be as collected as him in the face of such suggestive things. I’ve seen far more graphic stuff in sex shops with Kevin, yet the air feels so charged and the man in front of me is so assertively male that I can’t help but blush. Cameron’s poised face betrays little emotion, but from his deep, focused breathing, one could be forgiven for thinking that he looks like he wants to devour someone. He takes the mask from me, lining up the two sections and allowing them to lock into position again to form a single full-face mask.
“You need to retie your hair, make sure none of it can be seen,” he says, standing barefoot square in front of me, legs slightly apart.
Our eyes never leave each other as I untie my messy ponytail and pull every last strand of hair off my face and into a tight bun at the back of my head. Cameron lifts my mask up and places it onto my face, pulling the sturdy strap behind my head to secure it into position. He inspects the sides of my mask and pulls the hood of the robe up over my head.
I follow him out of the changing room and watch as he picks up his mask and positions it over his face. His mask is as black as obsidian with strong masculine features that contrast with the delicate feminine features of mine. He pulls the hood over his head and the effect is complete—an imposing, expressionless male figure watching me quietly from behind the anonymity of his mask. The sight of him in it makes me feel faint. If I didn’t know his rich, dark amber eyes and his confident, athletic posture so well, I would have no way of knowing who this man is.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready,” I reply softly. Can you ever really be ready for something like this?
“I won’t allow any man—or woman—to talk to you. Understood?”
“Okay.”
“Don’t leave my sight for one second. If you think you’ve had enough, you tell me and we leave quietly.”
“What if a woman tries to talk to you?”
“She will know to get away from me very fast,” he answers, his tone leaving no doubt that he means it. “This way.”
He leads me towards the door that must lead to the “Entertainment area”. A brass hook juts out on either side of the doorframe, each holding a thick black band with a key attached.
“This is the key to get back into this room—room 66. We get one each. Put it around your wrist.”
He opens the door to reveal another long corridor. The floor is cherry hardwood and wooden paneling carved into vines extends up the walls to the ceiling, all illuminated by a dim red light.
The Red Zone.
Dark instrumental music accompanied by slow, unnerving chanting immediately transports us into another realm. A musky scent perfumes the corridor: incense, candles and something else—the unmistakable aroma of sex. A brass arrow on the wall points left and we follow it barefoot along the corridor until we reach another metal door, armored from the looks of it. As we approach, it buzzes open and we enter some sort of small holding area where a woman with auburn hair and three men stand, all masked and wearing black suits. Cameron is usually the tallest man in any room, but this is one of the rare exceptions; these stocky men must be at least six foot four inches tall.
The woman approaches as two of the men run handheld scanners over our robes.
“Good evening, sir,” she utters to Cameron, her tone clipped. Her demeanor is so professional you’d be forgiven for thinking we’d just arrived at a business meeting. “Your guest?”
Cameron tips his head an inch.
“Can you vouch for your guest’s complicity with our rules?”
“Yes,” he replies coldly.
She turns to face me, her eyes locking with mine from behind our masks. “Madam, our club is an elite and private place where a select few need to feel safe and anonymous. We guard our privacy very carefully and do whatever it takes to safeguard it and our members. Do you understand? Whatever it takes.”
I nod, unnerved by the words uttered, words so at odds with her sterile tone.
“There are consequences for those that break our codes of secrecy,” she continues, “as well as for those who introduce such people into our establishment.”
Whatever it takes.
I swallow hard. I didn’t expect to be faced with such a transparent threat.
Whatever it takes.
“I understand,” I reply timidly.
“Good,” she purrs and the hint of an icy smile appears around her eyes from behind the holes in her mask. “Does your guest need a tour, sir?”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Very good.”
“Spread your arms and legs, sir,” one of the man requests, his voice deep and assertive.
Cameron obliges and is patted down.
The woman turns to me. “Madam.”
I comply with her taciturn request and bristle as her hands palpate my body over the velvet of my robe. Fingers squeeze my arms, glide over my breasts and explore my back before running down the front and back of my legs. Artificial light bounces off the shiny scarlet of her fingernails as she retreats a step and nods in the direction of the men who step to the side.
“We hope you enjoy your evening,” the woman breathes.
One of the men keys a code into a keypad on the wall and the metal door opposite us opens with a click. The door has a sign on it:
ALL MASKS ON
Cameron turns to me, his fingers interlocking with mine, his eyes finding mine through our masks. Without thinking, I squeeze his hand tightly, the effervescent touch of his firm flesh setting my skin alight.
As he pushes the door open and leads me through, the word consequences ricochets through me violently.
