We head up the wide stone steps together, and a short, round man with a mask, glasses, and a name tag that readsBennygreets us warmly.
“Welcome to Mont du Marquette,” he says brightly. “Since it’s your first time, would y’all like a tour?”
We nod, and follow him in.
“There are three areas,” Benny explains as we walk. “Theloudpleasure area, thequietpleasure area—more of a guideline than a rule—and the social lounge, which features a bar and a variety of complimentary non-alcoholic drinks.”
“Rad,” Grant says, looking around. “This place is even bigger than the one in Chicago.”
“We’re lucky to have more space out here,” Benny replies. “Perks of not being in a city. Now—socializing in the lounge only, pleasure in the pleasure zones. Pretty simple.”
He pauses, pointing toward a wall of sleek black boxes. “And no phones. Please lock them in the safes in the coat closet.”
I nod along, barely hearing him—my attention has already drifted toward thequietpleasure room.
Inside, a woman hangs suspended midair by ropes, her body serene, eyes closed. A masked man in shorts and a T-shirt—nothing flashy—runs his hand gently over her bare stomach.
A jolt of heat runs through me.
That.I want to be touched likethat.
“That’s Marvin,” Benny says casually. “One of our best shibari artists. And don’t worry—those suspension logs? You could hoist two full-grown steers with them and they’d be just fine.”
“Good to know,” I mumble.Is that really good to know? Why is that in my brain now?
Everything feels surreal. Erotic. Unfamiliar. And yet no one here seems fazed by any of it. Just me.
My friends head off, eager to explore the quiet room. “Be right back,” Maya says over her shoulder.
I linger. A little overwhelmed, very out of my depth.
I drift to the nonalcoholic bar in the lounge and order a hot tea. Something simple. Something grounding.
As the cup is set down in front of me, a sharpfemale yelpcarries out from the loud room.
I freeze.
A yelp? What was that?
I should ignore it. I should sit here, drink my tea, stay in my lane.
But something in me won’t let it go.
I pick up my tea, stand slowly, and start walking toward the sound. Toward the unknown.
My skin prickles the moment I step inside.
I hover along the wall, trying to get my bearings. The lighting is low and warm—everything amber and shadow. A handful of couples are engaged in various stages of, well, sex. Missionary. Oral. Doggy style.
Deep breaths, Faith.
I spot one scene that pulls me in more than the others.
There are four people total, but I’m trying to figure out who’s actually participating and who’s just...watching.
A woman kneels on a padded stool, her bottom raised, forearms resting in front of her like she’s planking. Another brunette woman stands nearby, fully nude, observing. A third woman in a red leather skirt and black top hovers behind them.
In the center of it all is a tall man—salt-and-pepper hair, glasses, blue T-shirt—holding a black leather implement. He’s not bad-looking, but he’s no romance hero. Still, the way he moves is deliberate.
