Page 11 of All Your Lies
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Leave your moral compass at the door and free your mind. You’ll be fine for one night,” she says as she pulls me forward.
“Mm-hmm, famous last words,” I say to myself.
I need a drink. Or ten.
As we approach another door, its black leather upholstery stands out strangely amid the surrounding concrete walls. Jenna twists the knob, and I narrow my eyes as the brilliant white lightpours out of the room. What kind of mind fuckery is this? Both the walls and the marble floors are a pure stark white. As we enter what seems to be a lobby, a woman in a tight blond bun and dressed in a black pantsuit rises from her desk.
“Welcome to Obsidian. May I scan your identification?”
I pull my ID out of the back of my phone case, opting to be as hands-free tonight as possible.
“Shit,” Jenna mutters as she searches for her ID in her messy sequin clutch with no success. “Here, hold this,” she instructs, and into my palm goes a smooth metal flashlight, a slightly tacky pink lip gloss tube, two red pens, three small connected paperclips, a blue sucker, a fork, a tarot card with the word death across it, and a surprisingly weighty miniature Super Woman figurine.
I raise an eyebrow at her array of weird items in my hands as she continues to rummage through her bag. “No stapler or rolling pin?” I deadpan.
“That’s in my other…ah!” she exclaims as she reaches into the bodice of her dress and rips her ID out with a smile before handing it to the woman behind the desk.
“Here,” I say, thrusting all of her odds and ends back into her clutch. “What’s up with the figurine?”
“It’s good luck.”
I raise a brow. “And the tarot card?”
“Also good luck,” she says with a wink.
“Welcome, Ms. Rossi and Ms. Jacobs. It seems this is your first time here, so I will have you fill these out.” She passes us a thick stack of papers and a couple pens.
The NDA and waiver on the very top catch my attention, causing my eyes to widen.
Where the hell am I and why would I need that?
I reach down and pinch Jenna’s leg.
“Ouch,” she hisses.
I eye the woman typing on her keyboard before looking at Jenna. “An NDA?” I whisper. Jenna just smirks as she signs her life away without reading a thing.
“I can assure you it’s for the benefit of every member. We take our privacy here extremely seriously,” the woman says without looking up from her screen. I give her a tight smile and redirect my gaze to the rules.
I scan through three pages of club policies and guidelines.
There are strict rules on refusal; no means no, which I believe is a given, but I guess you can never be too sure.
Only one alcoholic drink is allowed for consumption by members in any attraction for the night, excluding the bar and front club area.
Attraction? Like theme park attractions?
All scenes must be agreed upon by all partners prior to beginning.
Scenes? What the hell are those?
Failure to comply with the aforementioned rules will lead to termination of membership and prosecution.
Despite reading through everything quickly, I can’t help but pause at certain parts that leave me mentally scratching my head in bewilderment. Safe words? Fetishes? Dom/sub? A part of me yearns to ask questions, but the other part is crippled by a paralyzing sense of embarrassment. Yes, I’ve read about these things countless times, but the reality of it hits differently when you’re a mere door away from being entombed by debauchery. I have no experience. It would be like taking calculus when you can’t pass basic math. I’m out of my depth. Therefore, I have no intention of going anywhere besides the bar or dance floor.
The words on the page blur as I scanned the document, but when I finally reach the membership fee, my jaw drops, and my eyes widened in disbelief.
