Page 19 of The Good Girl Effect
There is distorted glass and ornate fixtures on a half wall around what looks to be a dance floor. I follow it around, watching the strange movement of the people, unable to make out what kind of dance this is.
As I reach the other side, I stop and gawk in surprise. I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing. There are people on the dance floor, but not many, maybe twelve or fifteen. They’re moving to the music in a way that is both natural and unnatural.
It takes my eyes a moment to realize that most of them are completely nude. And the rest are hardly wearing anything at all.
The small mass of bodies grind and rub against each other to the beat of the bass. Their hands roam over each other’s bodies. One of the naked women has her legs wrapped around a man, her arms hanging around the shoulders of another, and it’s definitely not adancethey’re doing. The man’s thrusts match the sultry beat of the music, and I can just make out their moans from here.
It’s salacious without being grotesque or vulgar. In fact, it’s almost beautiful.
“So itisa kinky sex dungeon,” I whisper to no one.
“You keep staring like that, you’re gonna get yourself kicked out,” a voice says from behind me.
My body feels flushed, tight, and hot as I spin around to find another small bar, much like the one upstairs. The man talking to me is a very handsome young bartender with nearly pitch-black hair. He appears to be my age with dimples and a coy smirk as he leans against the bar.
I quickly scan my periphery to be sure I haven’t just been caught staring at the dance floor…or sex floor, I guess. “I’m sorry,” I stammer as I rush toward the bartender. My cheeks are on fire, as are other parts of my body I don’t want to acknowledge at the moment.
He chuckles. “First time?”
Silently, I nod.
First time what? I don’t know. First time in a kinky sex dungeon, yes. First time my curiosity has gotten me in trouble, not even close.
“Need a drink?” he asks.
“Desperately,” I whisper as I rest my arms on the bar, not daring to turn back toward the erotic display in the middle of the room.
“Want me to fix you up something? I could surprise you.” Judging by his accent, he is also from America, like Phoenix and Jack.
“Yes, please,” I reply as I toy with my hair to busy my hands.
“Did you come alone?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Normally, new members get a tour and a guide. Did you not get a tour?”
I clear my throat, uncomfortable again. New members? Am I supposed to be a member?Good God, Camille. What have you gotten yourself into now?
“Um, no,” I reply, stammering.
“All right, well, this isn’t much of a tour, but that’s the dance floor. Those are VIP booths, and there’s a BDSM room in the back, but if you wanted to rent a private room, you’d have to talk to the host.”
As he slides my drink across the bar, I try to absorb what he just said, but none of it is really sticking.
A private room? BDSM?
Trying to keep my cool as I let all this register, I take a sip of the purple drink and realize that Jack St. Claire owns a sex club. That’s what all this is about. Now it makes sense why Phoenix didn’t want me asking any questions.
“Feel free to go take a look around,” he says, “but don’t be doing any of that gawking stuff you were a moment ago. Just play it cool. A pretty thing like you, I’m sure you won’t be alone for long, but if someone gives you any trouble, just signal to any one of the security guards, and they’ll help you out. Got it?”
“Got it,” I reply, feeling embarrassed and more nervous than I’ve ever been. I nearly chug down the rest of my drink, convincing myself that I’m going to leave as soon as I’m done. After slipping a note over to pay for my drink, I stand from the stool, clutching my purse to my chest as I slowly make my way around the club. I’m expecting that at any moment, someone is going to realize that I’m trespassing and kick me out.
As the bartender said, there are large circular booths off to the right with high backs and low tables so that people inside are hidden from view. Passing them, I see a doorway leading deeper into the club.
The noises from within stop me in my tracks. It’s not music I hear anymore but the unmistakable sound of something smacking flesh. The bartender told me not to gawk, and I am doing my best, but I am definitely out of my element here.
The room is sectioned off with high walls and space for people to walk around them. Other guests like me are meandering around them, watching. I pass by each one, not fully absorbing what I see. It reminds me of a museum, people perusing the art, but instead of paintings and sculptures, it’s whips and bondage.
