Maya
I remove my coat and put on my mask after entering one of the changing rooms in the reception area of the club. I check my reflection in the mirror before pressing the buzzer to be let through the door opposite of where I entered. Anonymity is sacred at Sanctum Obscura, and no one enters until they are suitably dressed and masked. I scan my keycard and check my coat with Stacey at the front desk, then hand over my bag for inspection.
It’s a familiar routine that bridges the gap between the club and real life. Separating those who are here to play and those who walk down the street outside, never knowing how close they are to what takes place between these walls.
I have barely slid onto the high stool before Caitlyn places a whiskey sour down on the bar in front of me. I smile at her, and she shoots me a wink. After two years of me frequenting this club nearly every weekend, we have become friendly, and I talk to her more than anyone else. It wasn’t always that way, but my experiences here have left me somewhat closed off. Caitlyn is safe, and she knows my order: two whiskey sours before the drink limit kicks in and I switch to water with a dash of lime.
“Are you playing tonight?” she asks when she returns to me after serving the other patrons.
“I have the pink room booked at eleven thirty,” I reply with a smile. Every room in the club has a set color and theme. The pink room is my second favorite, but I use most of them from time to time.
“Do you think you are ever going to let someone join you again?”
“Never say never,” I reply with a smirk, even though I know it’s unlikely after the one and only time I did. He was promptly removed from the club, but having an abusive piece of shit masquerading as a Dom has left me nervous to try again. I sigh to myself at the pun; masquerading in a masked sex club where no one is required to share their identity. Still, I wasn’t asking for his name, just his respect.
It’s been eighteen months since I let a man tie me up in this club. Eighteen months since he gagged me without giving me an alternative option for a safe word when I couldn’t communicate verbally. Eighteen months since he told me he would be showing me how to let go of a hard limit he was fully aware of. And eighteen months since I nearly ruined everything by ripping through the ropes and kicking him so hard that he slammed into the door and cracked the Perspex viewing screen. Along with a rib or two.
It didn’t traumatize me in the way it could have. I never felt like I was in danger. I’m stronger than I look, and I knew I could get out of the bonds easily. He didn’t know that, though. And the entireexperience served to reinforce my need to be the one in control. Which was the worst part, if I’m being honest with myself.
A huge part of joining Sanctum Obscura was about finding the safety to let go. Finding a way to let someone else take the reins. Literally. I craved the trust and communication I had read about in BDSM. I still crave it. The idea of submitting to someone—who knows exactly what I need, communicates clearly, and who sets limits without straying from them—keeps me hoping for more.
And the club allows me to explore parts of myself I never would have otherwise. It lets me feel seen without the fear of them seeing too much. I show my body, but not my soul. I can feel desired, yet avoid the risk of letting someone get too close.
The false Dom didn’t know my name. We hadn’t exchanged those details yet; perhaps he didn’t want me to know who he was before he saw my reaction. But it worked in my favor. He had no way of knowing who I was.
Luckily, Madame Veleta, the owner and resident Domme, was so enraged about that man violating my trust that she didn’t seem to pay much attention to how hard I had kicked him, nor how much damage I’d done. He was promptly barred from the club, and all members were reminded of the core tenets of trust and safety within the world of BDSM. Members of the club participate in levels of kink I had never even heard of, sometimes with complete strangers, but every part of the dynamics here are consensual.
I nurse my drink, taking my time to enjoy the sour burn, even if it doesn’t begin to make me tipsy. Nothing ever does. Not thatI want or need to be drunk here. I’ll get an entirely different buzz tonight regardless of alcohol consumption.
When the time finally arrives for my booking, Caitlyn hands me the key to the pink room, and I bid her a good evening. Confidence spills from me as I stride through the main area of the club where other patrons lounge, engaging in various sexual acts or simply talking amongst friends. I don’t spend a lot of time there. It’s an unwritten rule not to stop and stare. While privacy isn’t an option for those fucking out in the open, it’s considered rude to stare unless someone is using one of the private rooms, the public scene rooms, or the open stage.
I make my way down the hall, passing a few members taking up space just outside the private rooms. Private because they need to be booked and can be locked from the inside. It takes a simple press of a button, and the currently frosted glass screen becomes clear for those who seek an audience.
Exhibitionists who like to be watched. People like me.
I inhale deeply. The room has been professionally cleaned since its last occupants left. The deep fuchsia silk sheets have been changed out for fresh ones. Scented candles offer a light peony scent, but they unfortunately don’t cancel out the smell of bleach and ammonia from cleaning products. Even though the scent burns my sensitive nose, it’s reassuring for me to know the space is properly cleaned. Underneath the chemical and floral scents, however, the space still smells of residual sex.
And while the clean scents reassure me, the sexual ones excite and titillate. Each room has a theme and different furniture. Inhere, there is a bed, but I’ll be using the swing tonight. I pop my bag down and unzip so that I can take out the toys I plan to use: a vibrator, butt plug, and a dildo. The club has toys that can be used, and they are sanitized between each person, but I just can’t. I like my own; I like knowing exactly how clean they are. I place my toys on a small table before positioning myself.
The dress I’m wearing is far too tight—a black macrame number that gives an almost shibari like impression. It exposes my nipples, and the short length barely covers my ass and pussy when I’m standing, but I won’t be standing for this. I lean back in the swing and make myself comfortable. I don’t need breathing exercises here, though.
I already feel in control.
When I’m ready, I hit the reveal button, and the frosted glass clears in an instant. Four people come into view outside the glass, clearly divided into two couples based on how they paw at each other.
I recognize one of the men despite his mask. He watches me regularly. He asked me to join before, even just to sit in the corner and direct. But he accepted my no. I’m not ready to take the risk again yet.
Still, I smile at him, inviting his gaze as I move my hands over my body in light, tentative touches, slowly building up their need as much as my own. When the tension builds to an almost unbearable level, I take the first item from my table—a smooth pink plug. I bring it to my lips. My tongue darts out, and I swirl it around the toy, once, twice, before pushing it past my lips. My mouth watersin anticipation as my other hand comes to my breast. I waste no time bringing the spit-drenched toy to my ass, but before I push it in, my eyes raise to the men outside the room.
One wears a balaclava, showing only his eyes. Eyes that are borderline feral as he nods at me to continue. Slowly, I press the toy against my asshole, once past the resistance at my entrance, it slides easily in.
My head falls back, and a groan escapes my lips. This is good. Safe, yet daring. I can let a stranger dominate without touching me. Without being in the same room as me. It doesn’t meet my needs completely, but it helps. Helps me let go and enjoy the sensations without my thoughts getting in the way. Their eyes on me make me feel seen in a way no one does anywhere else. I’m not the helpful daughter to aging parents or the professional therapist who helps her patients.
In Sanctum Obscura, I’m just me.
My hands trail over my body, building the anticipation for me and my voyeurs. I won’t stop here—I can’t. My fingers move to grasp the next toy, the dildo this time. I push it into my pussy, straight to the hilt, enjoying the stretch that comes with it. I groan loudly as I pump it in and out, as I fuck myself for strangers’ viewing pleasure.
I wonder what they would think if they knew who I am normally? A straight-laced psychologist who spends her week helping others unpack trauma and learn new coping skills. But I’m not that woman here. Here, I’m a wanton slut who will degrade myself for that look of desire.
