“Well, nothing,” Stacy cut her off. “I was gonna save this as a surprise for when you got here, but it seems to be the only way I’ll even get you here. I ran into someone; he’s the owner of a club that deals with, uh, how do we say, your fetish.
“A club? What are you talking about?”
“A sex club! It’s a long story; I use to know a girl who was in it. Loved it. You always reminded me of her. I would have given you her number, or the club’s number, but I haven’t heard from her in years. We just lost touch I guess.”
“What? Feels dirty? Hell, it’s safer than the schmucks you’re trying to train. These people are tested and protected; it’s a business. It’s got to be safer. Oh, hell, just get down here.”
Thirty minutes later, Bridgette was weaving her way through a sea of pulsating, sweaty bodies; men and women snaking around each other, gyrating to the constant boom of the bass music. Flashing lights swirled throughout the club, illuminating a cloud of smoke that hung about the revelers. Bridgette couldn’t understand the constant haze whenever she entered the club; smoking was only permitted outside and the light misting didn’t seem to come from any other source see could see—no fog machines. Just another oddity of Trans, like its many patrons.
The Goth and jubilant, mixing together. Women and women and men all holding hands—no judging. Triangles of meat, fondling on the couches that lined the walls of the club. Women in six-inch platform boots—laced to the knee—parading around in tutus, followed by men in latex. Piercings and tattoos. All shapes and sizes, and all types of fetishes. All were welcomed; no one judged at Trans. Everyone was sexy in their own way.
Yet Bridgette had never felt comfortable there, despite the supposed acceptance of all kinks. To her, these people were the freaks. Not because they were different. But because they hated the world of conformity; they so hated everything, that they dressed to the very pinnacle of outrageousness just to prove that they were different. To say: look at me! I live freely, I do what I want. As far as Bridgette was concerned, they were just as fake as any other clique she had encountered. She only ever came to this place because Stacy loved it, and of course, she got to people watch.
As she headed for the patio, Bridgette felt the dancers’ eyes on her. In the real world, the man in the dress would have been stared at, but here, in this upside down reality, it was her being stared at; in her plain black dress—although it showed much of her amazing cleavage—she was the odd man out, the freak.
She broke through the back walkway and into the night air, happy to leave the dancing throngs behind her. The music was reduced to a vibration under Bridgette’s feet and up ahead she saw Stacy getting extra friendly with a tall, skinny man wearing mascara.
“Bridge! You made it.”
Bridgette could practically taste the vodka coming off her friend’s breath.
“This is Robert,” Stacy said, introducing the make-up wearing man. They exchanged handshakes, and Stacy continued. “Ok, we’re all going to dance together, but before that, you have to meet this guy over—,” she turned, trying to locate him and suddenly the man was there.
Dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and clouded in a storm of cigar smoke, the man extended his hand. “Ms. Todland,” the man said. “Your friend here has told me so much about you.”
“Oh,” Bridgette said, smiling. She took his hand, it was strong and his eyes were green and welcoming. “Only good stuff I hope,” she giggled.
“Of course.”
“Catch us on the dance floor when you’re done, Bridge.” And with that, Stacy left them to their business, dragging her new found interest back inside Trans.
“So, you work for the… uh, club?” Bridgette struggled.
“Yes.” The man produced a white business card with fine, raised lettering and handed it to Bridgette. “And I think we can help you.”
After the club, sleep did not come easily for Bridgette. She left early, and the few drinks she had at Trans did little to numb her mind before bed. Instead, she played through a million scenarios in her head, wondering what the right decision was.
The business card sat next to her phone on the bedside table while the man’s charisma and perfectly chosen words danced in her mind. More than five times she had picked up the phone, one time actually dialing five numbers before hanging up.
“We cater to no other kink than what women such as yourself desire, the man had said.”
“Really? I didn’t think there’d be enough demand for such a club.”
“You’d be surprised at how many women have fantasies such as yours. You’re really not alone, Bridgette,” the man had explained to her in a quiet corner table of Trans, far away from the throbbing music and sweating drunks.
“It feels like it sometimes,” she replied, suddenly feeling as if she were talking to a trusted friend. The man had a soothing presence about him.
“But you’re not. And you don’t need to feel ashamed. Our client list is extensive with women from all walks of life. Different ages, colors, & social status, but bound by one common sexual desire. A perfectly normal desire.”
A desire to be taken to the very brink of terror; bound and left helpless at the hands of a strong, commanding presence. But it was more than that. Yes, Bridgette, and women like her, pushed the limits, but it wasn’t for the pain necessarily. Some people got off on the pain alone, but Bridgette wasn’t one. It was more than the pain, although Bridgette could never really pin point it. Never really able to attach words or labels to it. Other people either got it or they didn’t.
Perhaps it was her rigid lifestyle since college; the professional world where she had to remain in control at all times, remain responsible and accountable to her bosses and customers. Maybe deep down she longed to lose all control, relinquish all responsibility to someone else. Or maybe it was the feeling that a man found her so beautiful, so sexy and perfect, that he was sure he was unworthy to approach her; the only way he could get with a woman like Bridgette sexually, was to physically take what he wanted. To ravish her the way he wanted, with no regard for her safety. But those were just theories, she really had no clue.
Bridgette had researched and found that some women accounted their rape fantasies to abuse or actual rape earlier in their life; these women learned that sex was suppose to be a forceful act and grew to embrace the violence of sex. But Bridgette had never been abused, which left her with more questions. And in the end, there was no one answer. No certain explanation.
But the man was right; she wasn’t alone. Whether it could be explained or not, many women had rape fantasies. And whether right or wrong—part of her knew there had to be a screw loose within her; it couldn’t be healthy to want to be harmed—she needed it.
The night’s conversation replayed over and over in her mind while Bridgette tried to sleep.
Too many choices; the ache between her legs cried to be filled. Bridgette’s hair begged to be pulled again and her mouth violated and gagged. And before she realized, the phone was in her hand, and her fingers were walking easily across the buttons.
There was no cost to women to join. She gave her consent that this was what she wanted and she understood what the club was. After the call there was nothing to do but wait. There was no set time. That aspect bothered her slightly.
But that was the thrill, wasn’t it? What she wanted; the total relinquishment of power. Never knowing where or when it would happen, pushing the boundaries till they nearly broke. And she was finally going to get what she wanted.
And with this knowledge, Bridgette lay in bed, trying her best to stay occupied and not focus on the one burning question that lingered on her mind: when would it happen?
