Since I turned eighteen a month ago, I’ve been waiting for this moment — or rather waiting for the response.
The letter with the black envelope and red writing.
The acceptance.
The possible solution to all the fuckery that’s been happening in my life.
I adjust my mask as I walk through the hall of the club.
It’s more exclusive than the palace and needs more intervention than MI6’s agents. I first got my ticket here a month ago after I convinced one of the random men I met at a pub that we could meet here.
It was, of course, a lie. Spending one night with him had already been too unremarkable.
He was the last one. I’ve been dissatisfied for a long time now, and I realised after that night that I should stop. It was all a waste of my time.
I cut out all my random escapades a few days before the official engagement with Ronan. I wouldn’t call it that official, though. People know about it, but it’s not announced vastly, and I refused the ring until we’re at least out of school.
Not that this game will go on until then.
The reason I stopped the encounters has nothing to do with the engagement and everything to do with me.
It’s been more than a week since that dinner at the Astor mansion. Ronan still lives his life as if nothing happened, and I get to live mine the same.
After all, it’s just a contract, a convenience, a link between our families and a thread to my plan. Nothing more or less.
I meant it — he can bring it. Nothing will sway me, and there’s no way in hell he’ll have me abandoning what I started.
Holding the acceptance letter between my fingers, my insides hum with excitement as I follow the girl down the hall with red carpets and walls covered in black flowery wallpaper.
It’s the theme of the club, La Débauche. As its name suggests, it’s for debauchery, depravity and…fantasy.
I first discovered it in my trips through the dark web. Then I found one of its members on Tinder and hooked up with him that night. That meeting got me my entrance recommendation.
Since then, I’ve been coming here to be part of the Audience Society, the voyeurs who watched the titillation of the human mind through their bodies.
It was fascinating. It was the first time I thought of something as that in…forever.
Watching those girls fall to their knees in front of stronger, bigger, and older men always had me rubbing my thighs.
I’ve had sex before, but I’ve never once had an orgasm or gotten wet enough to make the experience pleasurable. I’ve always chosen older men, at least fifteen years older than me and experienced, and still…nothing.
I was starting to think I was broken beyond repair and that I’d never feel the ecstasy Elsa and Kim keep talking about. I thought the feeling was foreign, just like me.
La Débauche’s scenes brought back some of that faith and the possibility of more.
That’s why I applied to be ‘Debauched’. One night, one stranger, and that’s it. I was rejected two times, but today, I received my acceptance letter.
The greatest policy here is anonymity. The reason I found Richard on the dark web is because he posted a shot of the invitation card in his public profile.
Here, no one knows who you are or where you came from. There are no names, just numbers. No faces, just black masks like the ones from costume parties. All women wear black satin gowns, and all men wear black trousers.
That’s it.
That’s all that’s needed.
As soon as they confirm you’re over eighteen, the sky’s the limit.
I have no idea how they accept people here, but it seems to be a tight process. I don’t even know how I got in. Even with Richard’s referral, it seemed so farfetched at the time, but I still threw in my letter anyway, hoping for something different.
That’s all I’ve been doing my entire life, wishing the shadow weren’t a normal state of mind and that different didn’t actually mean crazy.
Different just means…special.
That’s what Knox and Dad tell me, but the problem lies in believing them.
This club is different. It’s more than different; it’s an open door to many things I never thought were possible.
And now, I won’t only be watching — I’ll participate.
Not exhibition-style, though. I applied for a private session because, well, I might like to watch, but being watched is a different thing altogether. It means being bare, and I don’t like that.
The attendant, wearing a maid’s outfit and a mask, motions at a room. “Through here, Ms 115.”
I walk past her. The room has the same black wallpaper and red carpets. There’s no window like the other rooms I participated in, no bed or sofa, not even a chair.
The attendant reaches her hand out. “Have you filled out the form, Ms 115?”
“Uh…yeah.” I finally release the acceptance letter that has the form attached to it from between my sweaty fingers.
The form is a checklist about what I won’t allow and what I’m good with. I’m not good with anal, flogs, crops, any extreme pain, or being tied down, and that’s it.
I wanted to ask for a thirty or forty-something man, but they didn’t have an age option. However, all I’ve seen so far is older men who know how to handle a woman. La Débauche attracts a specific type of dominant males who have been in this depravity game for far too long.
“Do you want to review it one last time?” she asks.
“I-I’m okay.” Shit. Why the hell am I stammering? I wanted this. It’s my last chance at normal before I pass the point of no return.
She hands me a black blindfold. “As you requested.”
I take it from her with trembling fingers. “Thank you.”
“Please wait for Mr 120 on your knees.” I nod, and she smiles. “I wish you a lovely night.”
And with that, the door clicks closed behind her.
With one last breath, I sink to my knees on the thick red carpet, gripping the blindfold like it’s a lifeline.
Considering what happened in the past, this is the last thing I should do, but oddly enough, the moment I wrap the blindfold around my eyes, turning my world black, a sense of clarity falls over me.
I don’t think of Dad, Knox, or even Agnus, and what they would feel if they saw me in this position. I only think about those scenes I watched, the anonymity of it, the throbbing tension and that need for more.
Therapy didn’t work, so maybe this will. It’s a different type of therapy — the titillating kind.
The door opens, its click loud and deafening in the silence of the room. My breathing quickens as the air fills with another presence.
I don’t see him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel him.
Just like in the past.
I inhale through my nose and exhale through clenched teeth. This is different. This time, I consent to it.
This time, I want it.
Is it sick to want something that used to terrify the fuck out of me?
Or maybe it’s sick that I’ve run after it ever since I realised what sex is all about.
The presence stops in front of me. I don’t move even as I feel his shadow falling over me.
It’s strange how the other senses kick into gear when sight is gone. I think people don’t understand just how important your eyes are.
Now that my world is black, I hear every pulse in my ear and feel each breath going into and coming out of my lungs, and I sink into the scraping of the gown against my bare skin. As per the club’s policies, I’m wearing nothing underneath, and because of that, the buds of my nipples strain against the cloth. I have no doubt they’re visible for him.
Does he like it? Appreciate it?
For some reason, I can’t smell him. I do smell myself though — the lime scent. No idea why it feels like it’s coming from him, too.
Does he also smell of lime and citrus?
A hand falls on my shoulder, and I stiffen, my old signs trying to push against the intrusion. I breathe deeply, camouflaging that need.
It’s big, his hand, but it’s not calloused, just slightly so. It feels like the type of hand that will soon flip me over and fuck me against the ground.
Shit.
Why do I want that?
It’s too fast even for me, and yet there’s this unusual longing for Mr 120’s touch. Could be because of the blindfold or how good his skin feels on mine.
He slips the gown’s strap down my shoulder, the touch slow and sensual. For a second, I hold my breath, unable to stifle the pleasurable sensation crawling up my throat.
As he does the same with my other strap, my breasts slip out with a gentle bounce. They’re heavy and aching, and…strange. I’ve never had my breasts hurt this much, and he hasn’t even touched them yet.
It’s the anticipation.
The sick, thrilling anticipation.
Those same fingers clutch my jaw and lift it so I’m staring up — or my blindfolded eyes are anyway. The easy way he handles me is a sign of experience. He must’ve done this a thousand times before. I instantly feel safe at that thought.
His fingers trail down my neck, pausing at my collarbone to squeeze slightly. I stop breathing for a second, my thighs pressing together.
God. He’s only touching my collarbone and I’m ready to spread my legs wide for him.
He cups my breasts with both hands, and I purse my lips, trying to keep in the foreign sound that’s trying to escape.
The pads of his thumbs run over the tips and I jolt in place as a zap of pleasure shoots straight between my legs.
Holy. Shit.
Is that supposed to feel that good? He’s merely touching my nipples — that’s all. Just touching them. He’s not twirling or squeezing or anything.
I’ve always had sensitive nipples, but this is a new level.
He twists the tight buds. This time, I can’t hold in the sound, and I let the moan fall free in the silence of the room.
I don’t even know what’s happening to me, but my back arches, pushing my breasts into his expert hands.
Pinching one nipple, he teases the other with a feathery touch. It’s so soft and yet so damn painful. I never thought nipple play could get this unbearable or out of control.
It’s like I’m losing all common sense and my body only listens to this stranger’s ministrations.
My belly dips and an odd type of stickiness coats my thighs.
Am I…wet?
How on earth did that happen? And what the hell is this sweeping sensation forming at the bottom of my stomach?
He twists both nipples again, making me whimper and squirm. He goes back to the gentle caress just to pinch again. My pussy stings and I’m tempted to reach out and touch that ache.
The moment I do, he stops his ministrations.
No, no.
Why did he…oh, is it because I’m touching myself?
“I-I’ll be good,” I murmur, my voice so sexual it almost doesn’t sound like mine.
I let my hands drop to my sides again. He makes no sound or move, and I start to think I ruined the whole thing.
But then he returns to torturing my nipples. With each brush of his skin against mine and every cruel pinch, I moan aloud.
It’s too raw, too real.
Just too much.
He squeezes my nipples one more time, and my moan breaks into something so utterly foreign I stop making sounds altogether for a second.
It’s like being attacked from the inside out and I need to push it outside. The wave is so sudden and violent it steals my voice.
I grip the stranger’s arms, his fingers still pulling on my nipples as my pussy contracts and more juices coat my thighs.
Holy. Hell.
I think I just…came.
For the first time in my life, I had an orgasm, and he didn’t even have to touch my most intimate part.
What would he do if he got to that? Break me?
And why the hell am I getting so hot and bothered at that idea?
Even as the wave slowly subsides, I don’t release my hold on him. My nails dig into his forearms — they’re strong, feeling veiny to the touch, as expected from an older man.
I sigh, my heart rate slowly leaving the dangerous range and going back to normal.
My nipples still ache and throb, probably because he still hasn’t released them yet. He runs his thumbs over the tips again as if testing that they’re still hard and hungry for more.
This is one of those moments I wish I could have with a real person, not a stranger or in a fantasy or in a club.
But people like me aren’t supposed to have these things.
They were stolen a long time ago, and like any missing object, it’s impossible to get them back.
Something similar to shame sinks in my chest at the thought. How come I’ve become the girl who searches for normal in places that are nowhere near normal?
I shake my head internally. I’ll have all the time to think about that later. Now, I just need to focus on my night, make my teenage mistakes, and then move along.
“Huh.” His voice echoes around me like doom. “I didn’t know nipple orgasm was actually possible.”
I swallow so hard the sound is audible in the quiet of the room.
No.
I heard it wrong.
I must’ve. It can’t be him.
It just can’t.
I reach for the blindfold with trembling fingers, my pulse roaring in my ears like a disaster looming in the distance.
The moment I pull the black cloth over my head, a gasp leaves my lips.
He stands right in front me, wearing nothing but black trousers from which a V line is peeking. He’s lean, but his chest muscles are developed to perfection, adding a lethal edge to his previously approachable appearance. His hands are still playing with my breasts even as a wicked grin curves his lips.
I feel something break inside me as he speaks.
“Bonsoir, ma belle.”
