Dark shirt. Stone slacks. The shirt is one of the softer ones, the cotton smooth under my fingertips when I pick it up. She’s chosen well. Small, irrational relief spreads through me. “You did reconnaissance.”
“Obviously.” She rises and steps into my personal space without hesitation, smoothing the shirt against my chest, testing the fit with competent hands. “This one makes your shoulders look like a thirst trap and doesn’t have that horrible stabbing tag at the back of the neck. And the trousers…” She flicks the waistband. “Good butt. Very important.”
“I thought the focus was supposed to be on consent,” I reply, faintly strangled.
“Consentandgood butts can coexist,” she says solemnly.
I roll my eyes, but I’m starting to smile. The shirt really is soft. She reaches up and undoes the top two buttons without asking, leaving my throat exposed, then pauses. “OK?”
I swallow, hard. “Yes. That’s… fine.”
She studies my face for a beat, then nods, satisfied. “Right. Guidelines.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “One:you don’t have todoanything. Watching is participating. Holding my hand is participating. If at any point you want to leave, we leave. No questions, no guilt.”
I nod. “You’ve said.”
“I’m saying again.” She taps another finger. “Two: you don’t have to touch anyone you don’t want to touch. Including me. Including if things are already happening and your brain suddenly goes ‘nope.’ You say stop, we stop. No awkwardness, no hard feelings.”
My chest tightens, not with fear this time, but with something like gratitude. “And you?” I ask quietly. “You’ll say no if you want to?”
“You can count on it.” Her gaze doesn’t flinch. “Consent goes all ways. Even with me.Especiallywith me, because I get excited and I like sexy chaos and you are not a prop in my content, Jacob. Youare…” She trails off, eyes going soft. “You’reyou.”
The words settle somewhere deep in my heart and stay there.
“Three,” she continues, a little hoarse. “If I’m talking to someone or flirting and something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. You’re allowed to be jealous, or uncomfortable, or confused. None of that makes you a bad fit for me. Got it?”
“Jealousy is not a disqualifying condition,” I say, more to myself than to her. “Understood.”
She beams. “Look at you, absorbing the syllabus.”
I huff a laugh. She’s given me a script, boundaries, and easy escape routes. It doesn’t take the nerves away, but it gives them something to rest against.
“Let’s go, then,” I say, before I can change my mind.
Pink Sugar looks as unassuming as an art gallery. From the street, it’s a narrow building set back from the main run of bars, unmarked door, frosted glass. No neon sign. No red lights. If I didn’t know what it was, I’d walk past without a second look.
Inside, it’s something else entirely.
The first thing I register is the lighting. Warm, golden pools rather than harsh overhead glare. My shoulders loosen half a degree. The second thing is the sound: low, layered, more like a hum than a roar. Voices, laughter, the clink of glass, a bass line thrumming somewhere, but nothing like the piercing shriek of a packed pub.
My lungs expand more fully.
Tippi is a small blaze in the mellow light. She’s changed into a short, fluttering dress in some metallic shade that shifts between rose gold and copper when she moves, tattoos peeking at her collarbone and thighs. My brain helpfully supplies that she looks like the embodiment of the worddelicious.
At the reception desk, a young woman with dyed silver grey hair and sharp eyeliner looks us over with professional calm. “Evening,” she says. Her voice is warm, nonchalant, like she’s greeting us at a hotel. “Members and guests only.”
Tippi hands over a sleek card. “Member and guest.”
“Wonderful.” The woman scans it, then turns to me. “You’re Jacob?”
“Y… yes.” My hands want to fidget, so I lace them behind my back, feeling the familiar rub of my wrist with my thumb.
“We’ve got you registered as a first time guest, so I just want to double-check that you read through the code of conduct and the consent policy?”
“Yes,” I repeat. I went through them the way I go through security protocols, line by line. No drugs, no cameras, no anonymous drop-ins. Consent must be explicit, ongoing, and enthusiastic. Green, amber, and red safe word signals to be used, and there are wristbands for preferred interaction levels, with dedicated staff on every floor.
“Any questions?” she asks.
A hundred, but none she needs to answer. “No. Thank you.”
