Page 2 of Deeper

The men in leather exit the stage, and three others enter the spotlight, surrounding the woman. One carries a crop and another a wand vibrator while the third secures clamps to the woman’s nipples. Their faces are stern as their hands begin to explore the woman’s body. The man with the crop drags the leather down her front. The vibrator comes to life in the hands of the second man, and the third tests a gentle tug of the clamps. As they continue, she yelps and moans while she’s hit repeatedly with the crop. She thrusts her body when the massager touches her pussy. She begs for more when the last man tugs on the clamps.

They shout orders at her, and she responds as a submissive would.

Her answers are always followed with a softly spoken, “Sir,” when she asks permission for her pleasure.

It isn’t the brutal indulgence or the display of control that has my panties wet. It’s the freedom. There’s no judgment here. Sex isn’t considered a taboo subject or only meant for two people behind closed doors in the dark. The club is a place to celebrate sexuality without fear of judgment. This is exactly where I belong.

Then, the mood changes with one swift falling object. Naked flesh plummets from the rafters above the stage. The Doms curse, but the submissive woman is unaware since she’s blindfolded. They struggle to get her free from the swing, and in their haste to get her off the stage, the strip of fabric over her eyes is knocked off. Her screams pierce the room at a shockingly loud decibel, but no one listens. Everyone is too busy screaming themselves and running for the nearest exit.

I revel in it.

A naked man with a dark fauxhawk lies in a lump on the stage. A ball gag is shoved into his mouth and strapped around his head. Perfect for the BDSM theme—well, it would be if it weren’t for the number five that is carved into his flesh from his collarbone to the top of his naval. He’s dead, without a doubt, and everyone else in this room knows it, too.

Excitement grows in the pit of my stomach as the chaos unravels around me. I uncross my legs and then cross them again, trying to ease the building throbbing. I don’t take my eyes off his lifeless form showcased under the bright lights until I’m pushed off my stool and pulled along with the wave of club members. This place just became a crime scene, and most don’t want to be caught at the club the town pretends doesn’t exist. I begin to move, but my steps falter, and I take one more look toward the stage.

I leave Utopia and am in my car, traveling home, before the first siren cuts through the night.

There is nothing vanilla about murder.