She slides two silicone wristbands across the desk. Tippi’s is bright pink with tiny embossed hearts. Mine is a deep, calm blue.
“Blue means you’re open to conversation and maybe some play,” she reminds gently. “If you want to switch to social-only, we can swap it for yellow at any time.”
I nod, the simple, visible system soothing. A clear signal, and a clear out if I need it.
“Enjoy your evening,” she says, and means it without innuendo.
The first floor feels like an extremely comfortable hotel lounge. Plush sofas and armchairs in jewel tones cluster around low tables. The bar is stocked with everything from craft beer to herbal tea. People lounge and talk, some fully dressed, some in silk robes, some in lingerie that looks like art. A man in harness and trousers is deep in conversation with a woman in a floaty floral dress about, of all things, municipal recycling.
My brain keeps waiting for the sleaze, the edge of danger.
It doesn’t arrive.
I register small details instead, like the framed artwork that looks more like abstract bodies than porn. A cork board with notices about consent workshops and rope classes. A sign by the bar:No touching without explicit verbal consent. Enthusiasm is sexy. Coercion is not.
“This is the soft floor,” Tippi murmurs at my shoulder. “Social, cuddly, low-intensity stuff. If you need to decompress later, we come back here, OK?”
I manage a smile. Her hand finds the small of my back, anchoring me. My nerves are still fizzing, but they’re joined now by something else: curiosity.Intrigue.
“And… upstairs?” I ask.
Her smile turns slowly wicked. “Art gallery,” she says. “Come see.”
The second floor is louder, but in a way that feels curated rather than chaotic.
The first thing I see is colour. The walls are a riot of graffiti-style murals, with streaks of neon, stylised bodies, birds all half dissolving into abstract swirls. Black leather sofas curve along the edges of the space, and, in the middle, a low stage shines under shifting lights. A dancer in glittering lingerie moves to Nine Inch Nails, the bass line a dark, steady throb beneath her sinuous control.
Everything is deliberate. Nothing feels like it’s happeningtome; it’s happeningaroundme, and I amchoosingto step into it.
People drift in clusters, talking, touching, laughing. A woman in a suit with her lace bra peeking through is teaching someone how to tie a decorative knot on a wrist. Another couple are half-reclined, kissing slowly, nothing frantic about it.
Tippi is vibrating beside me like a rung bell. This is her domain. And it shows. “Breathe,” she murmurs into my ear, fingers tracing the edge of my wristband. “How’s the volume?”
“Manageable.” It isn’t quiet, but the sound design is clever; zones of intensity and pockets of relative calm. My brain maps them automatically, and gratefully.
Someone calls, “Tippi!” A tall person with short turquoise hair and a constellation of piercings grins, arms open. They’re wearing fishnets, denim shorts and a mesh top over a black binder. “You made it.”
“Did you think I’d miss my favourite place?” she laughs, hugging them tightly. Then she pulls back and gestures between us. “Jacob, this is Jay. Jay, this is the handsome Brit I’ve been texting you about.”
My ears heat. “Hello,” I offer, hoping my handshake isn’t gauche.
To my intense relief, Jay takes it firmly. “We’ve heard good things.” They wink, but it’s affectionate rather than predatory. “New folks get extra check-ins, so if anybody gets handsy, you find me or staff, yeah? Your peace of mind matters more than our reputation.” Their gaze flicks between me and Tippi, reading something in the air. “You two have fun. And don’t forget to hydrate. That’s not just a kink thing, that’s ahealththing.”
As they melt back into the crowd, Tippi smiles. “I love this place,” she says. “Everyone’s so… human.” Her fingers slide into mine, squeezing happily. “Oh,yay! Look who’s here.”
I follow her gaze. A woman is leaning against the bar, laughing with the bartender. Dark hair falls in glossy waves down her back, almost to her waist. Her dress is simple black, but it fits her like it was tailored for her body alone. When she turns, her mouth curves, and I feel, stupidly, like I’ve seen that smile on a screen somewhere.
“Tippi,” the woman says, delighted, as they approach. “I should’ve known you’d be here on a Thursday.”
“Marissa.” The name comes out like a purr. They kiss each other on the cheek, then linger a moment too long, noses brushing. There’s history there, obvious and unashamed.
My stomach flips.Here. We. Go.I can see it so easily: Tippi pressed against this woman, laughing, hands roaming, bodies slotting together with practiced ease.
“And who’s this?” Marissa asks, turning to me. Her eyes are dark and assessing, like she’s tasting the air around me.
“This is Jacob,” Tippi says. “He’s…” She hesitates, then smiles in a way that makes my heart pound faster. “He’s important to me.”
Marissa’s eyebrow quirks upwards. “Nice to meet you, Jacob.” Her tone is appreciative as she offers her hand. Her skin is warm, her grip confident. “You a member, or a guest of the chaos tornado here?”Tornado. What a perfect word to describe Tippi.
