Afternoon Delight: A True Tale of A SoCAL Sex Club (COMPLETE) | 2016

Summer had started off with a discussion on how my position was being terminated. There would be a month of transition and an additional two weeks paid vacation as a thank you for the long hours and trashed dreams.

Now, three weeks into unemployed, I sit in my car wondering how much global warming had to do with such an unseasonable cool summer day on this weekday afternoon.

I'm not a sex addict, I'm as generic as you'd get when it comes to sexual experience... but I figure that is something that your vanilla human would argue against if they saw my current state: unemployed, counting out the exact amount for cost of entry, as instructed by a text that was sent to me earlier that day; $50 for single men, $30 for couples.

That is why, if you had been driving down a nondescript boulevard, in a nondescript town, and you would have happened to look over, you would have seen a young male stepping out of a generic car with 50 bucks and his ID in his pocket, alone, walking towards a nondescript sunbleached metal door.

Sexual curiosity has always gotten the best of me ever since my first ejaculate, the result of innocently shaking my penis too-much/too-long/too-hard after urinating. It's the source of my downfalls and wins: why I hit on women (will she reciprocate?); why I got divorced (they did reciprocate); and why I was handing 50 bucks to a very friendly shirtless man who was a caricature of someone you'd find at a highway truck stop, trucker hat and all.

I lost my virginity in high school to a partner who was also a virgin. We had been making out for what seemed like hours before she asked me if I had protection and our sexual-history checkbox went from virgin to active as quickly as it takes to unwrap a condom. We had sex for a few seconds -- and by sex I mean I was inside her -- before she asked me to stop. Maybe her mom knocked on the door or maybe my she felt weird that her mom was in the house... I don't really remember... but that's the details of my first time. Was it romantic like the movies? Did she ride me hard and take my man juice like it had been promised to me by the countless hours (and pages) of porn my imagination had been subjected to? No and No. This was reality, and sometimes reality is boring-as-fuck, even when fucking is involved.

Today, like then, reality is hitting me hard as Trucker Man takes my money, checks ID, and welcomes me in. The sex club that was promised in the flickering lights of Hollywood’s mirage is spiraling condescendingly into a single vision: this sex club is no Eyes Wide Shut.

Sitting behind Tucker Man, cross-legged and not giving two fucks, is a waif of a girl, in her early 20’s, chatting up an older woman, age unknown, about her parents and how she plans to go back to school. The Waif side glances in my direction through the faded multi-colored strands of her thin hair, and I returned her acknowledgment with a friendly smile. Again, no fucks are given.

Trucker Man is very friendly and offers me the newbie tour. The venue is not exactly filthy, but it's not new by any sympathetic description. Outside, the tiled ground is covered in a thin film of yellow dust, a carry over from the dried grass that covers the rest of the grounds. A heap of stuffs that whispers old-but-not-forgotten is neatly stacked away from the sun's prying eyes under the safety of a wrinkled lonely tree. Trucker Man walks me into the patio’s common area, and nods to a young man wearing a pair of black slacks and stripped button-down shirt, the kind of person you’d expect to ask you if you’ve heard about the great interest rates available with a Wells Fargo credit card after you make a deposit.

He is looking at a couple across from him, an older man and a middle-aged woman. The woman is shirtless and the man is fondling her breasts.

Away from this threesome is another man, watching them, rubbing the bulge in his pants. It's impossible to not stare and she catches me. In her eyes she is far away, like she's been here before and the most important thing to her, in this moment, is to remember if there are enough limes to make margaritas for the bookclub she’s hosting this weekend. I try to smile but my lips don't move. Her lips don't move either but her eyes do, back to the guy fondling her.

Trucker Man is still talking, explaining the rules of no touching without consent, no photos, no smoking inside, no alcohol, no cellphone usage. He shows me the themed rooms, all empty; the toys, all neatly stacked; the sanitation supplies, all easily accessible; and the bowl of condoms and dental damns, all free to use.

We walk past the themed rooms into a foyer of sorts. It's a long room with various boxes, wooden contraptions, and two doors at opposite sides of the room. Muffled music is bleeding in, making it necessary for Trucker Man to yell as he explains that the door on the right leads to the showers and that I should just ask for towels and soap if I don't have my own.

He then points and yells that the door on the left leads to the dungeon, and doubles up on the no-touching-without-consent rule before opening the door, letting the music crystalize into generic gothic rock punctuated by a woman's rhythmic moaning.

It was in college, after years of generic teen-age sexing, when I finally fucked. She had a pretty face, full body, and a few years on me both chronologically and sexually. We met online and after a few hours of hardcore sexting, she gave me her address and we made a date to meet later that morning. There was no pic swapping, or meeting in public, or phone calls. We were both honest with our intentions and what was expected from each other: her only safety net was to ignore my knock; mine would be to walk away.

I showed up, she opened the door, and we fucked, and continued to do so for a few more months. We got high and fucked; got drunk and fucked; got into fights and angry fucked; became apathetic towards each other and fucked a few more times.

Our time together travelled the length of the wick that led us to the inevitability our demise, and amusingly, it finished just as it would have if we never had started: she slammed the door in my face and I walked away without looking back. In the end, she kept my wallet in exchange for the sounds our bodies made when she urged me to fuck her harder, an unforgettable cadence of lust-driven flesh-on-flesh impact. The same sound I now hear as I step into the dimly light dungeon.

Trucker Man closes the door behind us and my eyes to adjust to the see a couple, the only people in this room, that are the polyphony of moans competing against the blaring music. He is a little heavy set, wearing leather suspenders and sitting on a black bench while his partner, a heavy set woman is upside down grinding her pelvis on his face and loudly slurping on his penis between her own moans. It looks uncomfortable and impractical, but they are in their own world, not paying any attention to us, even as Trucker Man and I walk by in continuation of the tour.

The dungeon is naturally lit by a row of thin, dirt stained window panels near the ceiling. They filter in a honey yellow hue, giving the room an Instagramy feeling. Four faux-marble pillar frescos bookend each maroon wall, a non-dungeon-esque touch in this 40 x 40 room filled with period furniture, leather bound benches, and open-season fucking.

He stops in the middle of the room, next to a patent-leather-bound carpenter’s horse; turns around, gives the padded section a good hard smack, and triples down on the no-touching-without-consent rule before asking me if I have any other question.

I don't, my brain is still handcuffed to the sounds of The Couple in the room. Trucker Man yells at me to enjoy it and walks out of the room, leaving me and The Couple alone in the room… and as far they were are concerned, I wasn't even there.

Now alone and adjusted to the surroundings, I take personal lap – a victory tour for having made it this far -- around the room to really get the full experience. The Couple still pay no attention to me as I walk by them, which is fine by me.

There is wooden box some 10 feet away from The Couple, it’s a perfect observation point to to respect their privacy while appreciating their love for each other’s bodily fluids. I sit cross-legged, legs on the box, leaning back with my arms supporting my weight, while I watch and listen to the slobbering, slathering, squishy sounds coming from their genital direction.

Before she was my wife, and before she was my ex-wife, she was my girlfriend and I loved her just as much as the day she handed me our divorce papers. She had been on the pill the first time we had sex so I came inside, staying in until our cum began to spill out. I pulled out and walked over to the bathroom to get some tissues while she cupped her hand over herself collecting our sex before it hit the sheets.

She cleaned her hand using some of the tissue while I took the rest of to clean her vagina. We talked about something or another and once finished, I lay down next to her and held her in my arms. The few drops of cum that had gotten on the sheet was pressed against my leg and later in the evening she rolled me over because it was now also on her leg – but we adjusted and kept on sleeping… because we were together, and continued to be for many years after. Cum soaked sheets and all.

A stream of light brightens the room as someone enters, my back is to the door, so it’s obvious to the new comer of my interest in their presence since I have to twist my back and curiously stare in the direction of her, a young girl, wearing high-waist jeans that confirming her body’s curves up to her waist, and a modest t-shirt that hid a pair of medium-sized perky breasts away from disrobing eyes. This time I am able to smile and she smiles back, finds a chair a few feet away from me and quietly sits down to observe.

Every second in our silent audience of two grows a shadow that mutes the loud-louder-loudest of The Couple’s moans. Who is she? Why is she alone? Has she been here before? How many times? Is she single? Married? The scenarios forming in the flea circus of my imagination forced me to adjust my seating to get a better view of her… to look at New Girl’s face, to see her reactions, to user her as a mirror in my narcissistic fantasy.

My first long distance relationship with a cocktail of lube, a few drops of water, and a detailed description of getting deep-throated, is what led me to edging. For the uninitiated, edging is the art of not cumming, a fringe-masochistic philosophy of delaying orgasm for as long as possible, a practice I dawned on as innocently as a earthquake begins, by violently stumbling onto it during sex play, transforming simple rub-and-tug events into pools of pre-cum-covered hands, stomach, bed sheets. Not cumming became a challenge, something to strive for each time she asked me to touch myself. We kept at it until we were in the same city, at which point our relationship ended, ironically, due to communication issues.

Because of edging, the next woman that slept with me asked me if I had problems cumming. We had been making love, a mixture of oral to penetration back to oral back to penetration to ensure my orgasm never peaked. She was on all-fours when finally, after her fifth (or sixth?) orgasm, she pulled away excommunicating my cock from the warmth of her embrace into the cool ambience of our air-conditioned hotel room. She dropped to her stomach, defeated, and complained that her vagina was sore and she was tired.

It was too late to send her home, so she stayed the night. She pushed her soft freckled skin against me as and drifted into darkness, mumbling promises that I’ll get my turn next time. The next morning, her hands slid my morning wood inside her and with her chest pressed against me, she lovingly undulated her body until we climaxed and our liquids trickled out of her. She smiled, a siren grin of conquest confirming that her promise had been fulfilled, and got up to get ready for her day.

Women, just like men, want to know they’ve made their partner cum, it’s societally programmed into our sexual expectations. I’ll never know if she would have spent the night or would have had sex with me the next morning I had cum before she asked me to stop… what I do know is that the first thing she said to me after stepping out of the shower that morning was “Told you I’d make you cum.”

Following that night, we had a marathon sex life for a few months, fueled by each other’s new-ness, each session ending with her asking me to please cum inside her. As our relationship ebbed from casual to natural, so did the frequency of intercourse: twice a day, to once a day, to once every few days. She got tired of cumming too much -- her own words -- and we both learned that there is such a thing as orgasm fatigue.

My watch says late-afternoon and the orange hues reflecting off the pale white shoulder of young woman being led into the dungeon confirms this. It must have been at least a half-hour since I had entered… but it doesn’t really matter… I had been lost in thought and mesmerized by the swirl of erotic memories scarred in my brain. New Girl had left at a certain point, The Couple had shifted positions but are still at it, and now I’m watching a young woman adjust her flower-pattern cotton dress to properly straddle herself on the same bench Trucker Man had smacked before leaving me to my vices.

The bench is sturdy with two inverted v’s for legs connected by a central beam that is at least a foot in width and four in length. The beam is padded and covered in black patent leather, its shiny black gloss a strong contrast against the white breast now pressed against it. The legs are painted chalkboard black, each with a small velvet covered bracket for Flower to rest her elbows and knees.

A middle-aged woman, naked except for a flesh colored strap-on dildo protruding from where her vagina should be brought her in and is now inspecting Flower’s position, tying her legs and arms down once each one passes inspection. From this distance I can’t hear her, but Flower’s lips move to what looks like a “Thank you Mistress.”

Mistress orbits around Flower saying something unintelligible, index and middle finger always on her, as if she was inspecting the cleanliness of a freshly dusted surface. It wasn’t until Mistress’ 3rd orbit that she lifts Flower’s dress exposing the red hues covering her ass and the back of her thighs: a sea of ping-pong sized welts and thin switch sized lines.

My cocoon, the box I am sitting on during their parade is no more than 20 feet away, tucked away from the sunlight’s accusatory shine. I feel comfortable here, safe to observe… but I stay still all the same.

Once upon a time, a petite stripper, wearing a bee themed bikini, had straddled me in the semi-private room of some no-name strip club. She grabbed one of my hands, pressed it on one of her tits, and found a position where the only thing between my shaft and her quite palpable camel toe were a few thin pieces of fabric. Her smooth movements, a virtual hand job, had me on the verge of orgasm until she stopped, put a hand inside her bikini, and pulled out two very wet fingers. She looked at me while she sucked them clean and told me she needed to fuck, unzipped my fly, and began to stroke me. I tried to push the fabric covering her vagina off to the side but she deftly moved away softening the grip she had on my cock, letting it rest against the softness of her yellow and black microfiber bikini, and whispered something about cameras in the room and we should move our party to the VIP lounge.

Checkmate.

After clumsily stuffing my penis back into my pants, I told her to give me a minute and let me think about it. We had one last dance and she phoned it in, I tell myself, because she realized her upsell had not worked. By the end of the song, my balls had had gone from ready to blue and my mood had soured. She got up and looked down at me, like she owned me, and walked out. I laughed at the ridiculousness of her game and joined my friends outside.

Mistress is looking in my direction, and in the safety of shadows, I still feel her gaze, a statement: she owns this room, owns Flower, owns the Couple, owns everything in this room, including me… and without breaking line of sight in my direction, she slaps Flower’s ass.

She slaps her hard; then she slaps her again. Hard.

She continues the punishment, each blow violently jerking Flower forward. Flower cries, loud at first, then softer with each additional moment of impact.

Mistress is still looking in my direction and I can’t take my eyes off of her. My brain can’t process what is happening right now; my body wants to move forward and be closer but her gaze is making me stay in my place because I don’t want to give in to her. Lady, I converse with my eyes, I’ll move when I’m good and ready. But the reality is that I’ll move when she’s not looking at me. Mistress knows this I’m sure, I tell myself, that is why she is now breaking line of sight, to give me a chance to move in closer, undetected, like some fucking chastised puppy coming closer for a treat.

There is a leather bound chair near the center of the room. I take a few sheets of towel paper and spray them with disinfectant to clean it before moving it to be closer to them. My back is turned, but I hear them, not words, just yelps and the crack of soft flesh being punished.

With the chair a few feet away I sit down, back straight, forearms resting on the chair’s arms. Self-conscious is an understatement, even my rate of breathing becomes a question: it is too fast? Mistress has stopped punishing Flower and is now massaging the irritated areas around her ass cheeks.

This pause is the first chance I get to really look at Flower. She’s attractive, in that girl next door way. Her lips are full, pink, soft, and kissable, regardless of how her smeared lipsticks is making them look deformed. Her cheeks are pink from exertion, black smudges of mascara show that she’s had the chance to wipe her face at a certain point… sometime before now. The top of her dress had been unbuttoned to reveal her ample breasts but her belt is still on, like whoever she was with before hadn’t even bothered to undress her before punishing her… and she hadn’t even bothered to undress herself before she was put on display.

Her eyes are always closed, even when she answers “Yes Mistress” when asked if she’s enjoying herself; or “Yes Mistress” as the criss-cross of her welts begin to crown into a single red mark and she is asked if she wants more; or “Yes Mistress” as the latex dildo pounds into her and she’s asked if she wants it harder.

Or “Yes Mistress” when she is asked if she wants to cum with my cock inside her.

That’s when Mistress looks at me and asks me if I’d like to fuck her pet.

In my life I’ve only refused sex three times. The first time was at a high school party: she had come into my room, unbuttoned my, shirt and was running her hands down my chest when I woke up. We had talked earlier that night and she had made her intentions clear. I thought I had as well… so now, half naked, I told her again, kindly, that I wasn't interested, but she was welcome to stay in the room. She thanked me and I walked out when I thought she had fallen asleep. Later that morning, I saw her walking out of my buddy’s bedroom and head straight to the front door.

The second time was a girl that wouldn’t have sex with me because of her period. We had been making out for a while when I finally got her panties off. She had been resisting, and once they came off I learned why via a white string set against the darkness of her beautiful onyx pubes. I paused for a micro-second, but that was enough to make her self conscious regardless of my numerous reassurances that all she needed to do was just pull it out and that it didn’t bother me… she instead offered me anal, which I knew would be impossible because we didn't have any lube and she didn’t want me to play with her clit so she could relax. We settled on her blowing me to completion instead.

The third time is today, and I do so with my most-manliest-of-tones: I apologize and courteously decline the offer.

No, I was not going to fuck Flower. My participation is as an observer and I already felt like that was too far down the rabbit.

Not missing a beat, Mistress smiles and asks me if I her pet is sexy… well, it’s more of a statement than a question, but I still answer “Very much, yes.”

But I really don’t. I’ve been jolted into a reality that my brain is furiously rejecting. None of this is sexy. It’s a fantasy plot twist of a curious libido shown the anthropomorphization of No; a dream-state that will end when the curtain drops and Flower is free to walk way.

But she doesn’t. She’s resting on her elbows and knees, eyes closed, skin flushed, waiting for her Mistress to decide where to go.

The Couple’s moans break the spell that has me chained to my chair. They are fucking again. She’s now on her back and he’s furiously pounding into her.

It was late in the evening when I had finally fogged out of my drunken stupor and called her to meet up for dinner and go over our collective memories of last night’s events outside of we got drunk, we made out, and that I had called her a dirty slut: that last part was a first for both. We ate and confirmed everything and she asked me never call her a dirty slut, never-ever.

Even when she had her legs on my shoulders and furiously rubbed her clit while she kept my cock fully shoved inside her, or when she asked to park in a dark area because she wanted to have my cum in her mouth, or when she asked me to buy restrains to tie her up and fuck her, or when she had me prop myself up with one hand on the bed so I could wrap the other one around her neck, gently choking her as she neared orgasm. She wanted to be dominated and had the sexual appetite needed to materialize her needs, but that did not make her a whore, slut, and/or bitch. She made this crystal clear after I apologized for calling her a slut.

She sparked my interest in domination and gave me the most dangerous answer to curiosity’s best question: why?

Why? Because I want to. I want to watch this video; I want to see these pictures; I want to find a club; I want to hand this man 50 dollars; I want the dungeon; I want to live the fantasy. But this is reality, and reality has a bad habit of fucking you even when you think you are doing the fucking.

The dungeon’s door opens and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, cargo khaki shorts, mid-calf white cotton socks, and orange crocks comes in. The human attached to this ensemble is in his late 50’s. White hair covers his head, face, chest, arms, legs, and as he takes off his shorts I see that the carpet matches the drapes.

He French kisses both of them, walks over to the condom bowl and asks Flower if she wants to get fucked, to which she answers a monotone Yes Master.

The trust and absolute mutual respect of boundaries in a Dom and Slave relationship is jokingly summarized as Safety Word… but in action it is much more than that. It’s about communication and being clear about your limits and intentions ahead of any play. It’s controlled and methodical, an asymmetrical game of chess where the number of moves to win has been decided before formations are set, because the game will not continue any longer than planned.

Boundaries are the currency between Dom and Slave and I was broke before I had even started to search for a club. It’s why I cheat; why I flirt; why I shoved a straw up my nose and snorted coke when I swore I’d never, again; why there are waking hours of my life I will never remember because shots, shots shots.

My life, with no control to counter my wants, has funneled me into this chair with no safety word to scream as I watch Master enter Flower and commence fucking her with precision and intent.

Mistress, to not be left out, climbs on top of Flower and rubs her crotch against the top of her shoulders, and soon they booth start to moan.

Without breaking rhythm, he reaches out and wraps his thick hairy fingers around her delicate neck. I can tell that he’s not hurting her but from the shift in his muscle tension, it’s visible that Mistress is pushing against his hand purposely putting more pressure on her neck. In labored breath, she mutters “Master, may I please cum?”

He moves his forearm slightly raising her head and tells her no. It’s clearly visible that she’s uncomfortable but her hips continue to grind against Flower’s back.

Now Flower asks to be allowed to cum. He pulls out of her and tells her no. Changes condoms, and sticks his cock in her mouth while he gropes Mistress’s tits, and she in turn reaches in between Flower’s legs and is fingering her to the best of her ability.

As the moans crescendo, he instructs both women to not cum.

And The Couple have begun to fuck even harder.

I think about the two women outside and the silence in their eyes; they had figured me out the moment they saw me: an observer, an uncontrollable wanter. The Mistress knew this of me as well and let me know that it wasn’t enough to want to make it to the end of this game. She had tried to make me realize that there are no maybes, only boundaries, and you those to survive.

He changes condoms again and begins to fuck the Mistress from behind for a few minutes and then stops.

Then he tells them to cum.

And they cum.

At the end of Requiem for A Dream, Harry (Jared Leto) realizes he’s paid a physical pound of flesh for his lack of boundaries before his remorse/depression seeps in. He wanted without ever acknowledging the personal cost of his pleasure.

Marion (Jennifer Connelly) on the other hand, is clutching her want, a victory get, after putting her sexuality on display for a crowd of men. Yes the scene was vulgar and it was shocking, but that is her nature: she’s been using her sex as leverage for wants all along so this last fuck-scene isn’t any different. Someday she’ll pay her pound of flesh but you don’t know how or when… and that’s the frightening thing… not knowing how or when your wants will come to collect.

Their moans fill the room, cutting into my space, searching to claim something for my want. Their ecstasy knows I don’t belong here, but I am not willing to give it anything, so I brace for it to be unapologetically take from me.

You see, I’m riddled with scars of all the all the times a pound of flesh has been tried to take from me. They are my trophies, a reminder of how far I had to go before it was too late to turn back. They are all reminders of stories waiting to be told.

++++++++++++++++++++++ I had started penning this a while back and kept on adding to it, making edits, etc, when someone commented that I should make a new post for it. So instead of spamming, I just waited until it was complete -- so here it is. I never expected it to be this long, it actually took a weird turn as I stared to really think about that day and my life... I'll answer as much as possible if there is interest.

Original (incomplete) https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/4o4eaf/afternoon_delight_a_true_tale_of_a_socal_sex_club/ ++++++++++++++++++++++