Page 15 of Tied

Chris

The club is not what I expected, but it more than exceeds my needs. Stepping in behind Tyler, my eyes wander to his backside unbidden. As he moves, the flex, shift, and adjustment is perfection. Tearing my eyes away to watch where I’m walking, I step through a dark hallway lit by flashing LEDs along the floor. It’s bright enough for me to see where I’m going, but dark enough to cause an excitement within me for what the darkness holds. The thumping base makes the lights shudder and dance, sending a thrill down my spine.

Checking over his shoulder, Tyler makes sure I’m following before stopping short of a heavy door. “There is one, and only one, written rule here. You have to adhere, Chris.”

“And that would be?”

Stepping in close, with a serious expression, Tyler leans in to speak. “No one is forced. Everything must be of yours or their free will.” His words register, but the feel of his breath on my neck sends a chill this time up my spine, causing my brain to freeze up.

Leaning into his ear, speaking low, I feel utterly brazen. I’m not really sure if it’s from too much drink or a need to see his body tightly against mine, but I ask, “Does that include you?”

Stiffening, Tyler does nothing at first. I wait patiently, waiting to see what reaction I’ll gain. “Especially me,” he states, moving towards the entrance. “Over there, sign in.”

Pointing to a hostess’ desk, where it indicates the cover charge, I fork over the extortionist cost and fill in a non-disclosure agreement. They take discreet to a whole new level. First time I’ve done that.

After signing over the lease on my Maserati—at least that’s how it felt—I push through the heavy door that Tyler went through just moments ago.

Flashing lights, rumbling music reverberating off the walls—which are the usual culprits of any club—bombards my senses. But this is different. My mind has a hard time processing it all. I see a sea of undulating flesh. The music rolls to the beat of the inhabitants, not the other way around. There’s more flesh than clothing.

“Oh, I think I’ll like this place,” I mumble to myself as my eyes dart around.

Crossing the floor towards the bar rail, looking out over the men and women that tear into one another, I’m overloaded. My cock grows of its own will as my imagination comes alive.

Tyler speaks in my ear, surprising me. “Remember the rules and you’ll be fine, Chris.” He turns and retreats into the foray.

There’s so much to see, I don’t know where to look or not to look. I see a woman with her legs wrapped around the head of a man devouring her. She’s obviously looks more than satisfied with his performance. On a bench to the side there’s a man lying down, his face buried deep in the crotch of another man, sucking hard. This occurs as his own cock is cared for in the same manner. Another situation, I find a man with his arms restrained in shackles at his sides over a tantric chaise, where a woman with a strap-on rides him from behind.

I’m trying out that chair at some point if given the chance.

There are bodies tied, whipped, strapped, hung, fucked, licked and caressed in every inch of the club. My mind is searing the memories into my brain for later. My cock is like a kid lined up for ice cream on a sweltering day, dancing from foot to foot, anticipating the first touch of the sweet cool treat to my tongue. This is totally the right and wrong place for me to be.

Breaking me from my stupor, a petite platinum-haired woman, wearing a blue pencil skirt and white, free-flowing camisole asks me, “Could I get you a drink?”

“I’m not really your type, love.”

“Well, you’re not mine either, Mr. Rock,” she says loudly over the music.

Slightly confused by the response, I ask, “Then why offer me a drink with an expectation of more if you’re not looking for it?”

My garish answer doesn’t faze her. On the contrary, she seems alight after I turn her down. Raising her hand, signaling a scantily dressed woman over, she asks again, “What would you like to drink, Governor?”

“Martini, please,” I respond.

Tapping her finger against her lips, she gives me a wicked grin. “How about a cosmo? Probably the best you’ll taste in New York.”

Slightly surprised, I try my best to hide it. “Thank you.”

Telling the other woman my order, and I assume her own, the waitress leaves shortly after.

“So, Governor. How does an upstanding pinnacle of society end up here at Dangereux?”

“It was recommended to me. Is there a problem with that?” I ask, watching as she scans the crowd. I wouldn’t say she’s looking at any one act or person directly, more that she’s a manager or boss watching to make sure things are going as they should.

“No problem. I just wonder why a married, very public person such as yourself would come to a sex club where there’s a high chance of your proclivities coming to light?”

Ignoring her quip, I smile and ask, “Does everyone here know everyone? I mean, are these only couples and lovers?”

Leaving the original line alone, she answers my avoided question. “No. Most are single that come here.” The little lady then turns, giving the display floor—as it can’t be called a dance floor—her back, and me her full attention. “If you don’t mind me asking, who did you come with?”

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