Club 42

by Joanna Angel

  I could sense that the 50 Cent birthday song was coming to an end, and I wanted to close on a high note. I climbed on top of Josh, as if he were my pony. I used his belt/my whip as like a “giddy-up” mechanism and forced him to give me a ride around the stage. He came to a stop at some point, and the DJ taunted him, telling him he had to go fully around the stage. I whipped his ass again and forced him into motion. As I rode on his back, I saw his buddies throwing their last remaining bills at me.

  The song came to an end. I got off of Josh, took the blindfold off him, and put my hand underneath his mouth, motioning for him to please return my panties. I gave him back his belt, and then I raised his arm up like he had just won a UFC match, and everyone clapped for him. I gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Happy Birthday Josh,” I whispered in his ear.

  He gave me the most bashful smile. He looked humiliated yet lustful, with puppy dog eyes and mussed hair, and while I couldn’t hear him, I saw his lips mouth back, “Thank you.”

  After I collected all the cash on the stage, I went straight to the “bar” and asked for a bottle of water. The girl with the blue corset was still there. I felt like I hadn’t seen her in years, so much had changed since the last time I saw her. In actuality, I’d only just met her a few hours ago.

  “That was awesome!” she said as she handed me a bottle of water.

  “Oh! Really? I had . . . no idea what to do up there. Was that what I was supposed to do?” I replied.

  “Well, most girls just kinda sit on their laps and wiggle around for a few seconds,” she laughed.

  “Oh! That was . . . the last thing I thought to do,” I said honestly.

  “My name is Rachel, by the way.”

  “Oh! Yes, sorry, I’m . . . Naomi,” I replied. I hadn’t had the opportunity to come up with a nom de plume yet, but I felt a kinship with this girl, like we went way back, and I felt comfortable with her knowing my true identity.

  “Well Naomi,” she leaned in. “I work at a dungeon a few nights a week. You should come to one our play parties sometime! From how you acted up there . . . I think you’d really like it.” She winked at me.

  How interesting. The cute girl serving water and juice, who also happened to be the only clothed female in here, had a side that I certainly wasn’t expecting. But I also wasn’t expecting myself to be a stripper when I woke up this morning, so I guess you really can’t assume anything.

  To take the information on the dungeon, turn to page 91.

  To turn down the invitation to the dungeon, turn to page 117.

  Two months had passed, and Club 42 had somehow gone from being an ironic, accidental experiment to an actual career. I’d paid off a credit card whose debt had haunted me for years. I’d never paid anything above a minimum payment on any credit card before, so the thrill of logging into my account and paying off the whole damn thing made me feel like I was a Rockefeller or something. Granted, it was a card with a $700 limit on it, but it had accumulated about $500 in interest, and I basically thought I’d be paying it off until I was ninety.

  I told a few of my friends about the job, and those friends told all of their friends, and then through the very few degrees of separation in Brooklyn, everyone in the borough knew. I could feel people whisper about it as I went to the same local spots I used to, and dating became quite complicated. I felt desired and diseased at the same time. I’d spend the day being worshipped by people I had nothing in common with and no real attraction to, and then I’d get ignored by men after sleeping with them once, men who listened to the same music I did, lived in the same neighborhood I did, and even sometimes went to the same college I went to.

  I enjoyed the job, though. I enjoyed making small talk with other naked women from so many different walks of life, in between us exposing our private areas to pop music on stage and dry-humping customers. It was a unique comradery with a group of women I’d certainly never felt before. However, even though I had the folds of each of my co-workers’ labias memorized, they were aquaintances at best. We were, after all, in competition for the same lap so things stayed both cordial and competitve. The only girl I’d actually become quite friendly with was Rachel, the nonalcoholic bartender.

  So, on a random Saturday evening, after being ghosted by a musician named Rob that I had tentative plans to play Skee-Ball with, I texted Rachel and asked her about the parties she’d always tell me about. It seemed like an event happened in this underworld just about every weekend, and this weekend was as good as any to start. I was sick of constantly putting myself out for these . . . what do you call them . . . “fuckboys,” and also, don’t tell anyone, but I was getting sick of Skee-Ball. After you’ve gotten the ball in the top hole like four times in your life, there’s very little to strive for. I deserved to be treated with respect, and I also deserved more exciting weekend entertainment than an ironic arcade game from the ’70s.

  Rachel replied to me with an address and a code word to say at the door. She also told me to wear all black. I slipped on a pair of tight black jeans, a black blazer, black heels, and a black camisole top. I looked more like someone ready to go work at Lord & Taylor than I did a dominatrix, but, as I’d learned from whipping a birthday boy with his own belt and blindfolding him with his own tie, the dominatrix comes from within you. If your twisted heart is in the right place, you can make anything work.

  I arrived at an unmarked warehouse in the meatpacking district. It was in-between two other warehouses that were marked, which was how I knew that this was the correct one. One guy sat in a tall chair outside the door. He had a septum piercing and an eyebrow piercing, and two sleeves of completely filled-in black tattoo. He waited for me to speak.

  “Um . . . pineapple?” I said. This was the password I was given via text.

  He slid open a heavy metal door and pointed me toward a steep narrow staircase. I walked up the stairs, and as I got higher with each step, I began to hear heavy bass from some dark-sounding industrial music, bits and pieces of people’s conversations, and hard, echoing “thwacks” and sex moans. From the sound of it, it was going to be a good night.

  I got to the top of the stairs and entered a universe that made Club 42 look like an afternoon at my grandmother’s house. In the middle of the room was a big black leather X with a buff man strapped to it, wearing nothing but latex tighty-whities. He was being flogged all over his chest by a tall blonde in a shiny latex catsuit and ten-inch platform stiletto heels. These were the same heels I always wanted to purchase when I went to the stripper store on 8th Avenue where I now got my clothes for work, but I never got them because it would be impossible to dance in them. The five- to six-inch heels were the most practical working stripper shoes—they were tall enough to separate you from the general non-stripper heel-wearing public, but not so tall that you’d trip and fall on yourself while seductively dancing in them. These ten-inch heels were not made for dancing. They were made for beating.

  Another woman came over and assisted the catsuit blonde with her beating, using what appeared to be some kind of electrical rod to shock the buff man on his balls. The man winced in pain, and the women gave each other sinister looks as they continued their torture. After multiple whacks and zaps, he was patted on the head, and on the balls, and called a good boy.

  I was on sensory overload in this black and red loft, which was filled with smoke and blasting electronic music. Standing to my right was what appeared to be a sophisticated couple. The man was in a three-piece black suit, and the woman next to him wore a long, black, sparkly flapper dress, with her hair in pin curls, and a feather hat. However, instead of a clutch as an accessory, she held a leash in her hand, with a human in a full latex suit and mask attached to it. The human was kneeling on the floor, sitting there patiently like a well-behaved dog while its owner had whatever conversation she was having.

  Trying not to ogle too much, I made my way over to the leather couch in the corner. A woman approached, wearing a gag in her mouth that was attached
to an entire contraption on her head, which itself was attached to a silver tray with cocktails and cigarettes on it. She couldn’t exactly speak, but I could see by her expression that she was offering me whatever was on the tray. I grabbed a cocktail and a cigarette. I didn’t normally smoke, but I also didn’t normally go to dungeons that required passwords to get in, so . . . c’est la vie.

  I lit up the cigarette, and a thin man scurried over to me on his hands and knees, with a black gag around his mouth that had an ashtray connected to it. I ashed my cigarette into his mouth receptacle, as if this was something completely ordinary to me, as if all my ashtrays were humans. I nodded at him, fully expecting him to scurry away, but he just sat there, obediently. So I continued to smoke my cigarette and ash into his tray, thinking . . . I may have found a friend here.

  “Naomi! Hey!” said a stunning girl in a long black mermaid latex dress, who was now standing right in front of me.

  “Um, hi?” I said, trying to think of how this girl knew me. But after a few brief moments it registered that this mermaid was Rachel. I did a double take.

  “Oh, my god, hi! Rachel, wow . . . holy shit!” I replied. I was used to seeing her in Uggs and a corset—normally her hair was up and she wore very minimal makeup. Tonight, she had a perfectly eyelined cat eye, bright red lips, and long glamorous lashes. She stood tall, taller than me, and I could see high open-toe stiletto heels with red bottoms on her feet. These were not from the stripper store. These could not be purchased for $80–$120. These were Louboutins, and even my most lucrative day shift would barely pay for the heel of this shoe. I was taken aback. I was the one who spent the day opening the inside of my labia to strangers, while she opened bottles of water, fully clothed.

  “This place is really neat!” I said, as I ashed into my human ashtray.

  “I’m so glad you like it! You finally came,” she said, noticing my ashtray. “Good boy, Ashey.” She crouched down, and he looked grateful with his eyes. Ashey the Ashtray. I liked it. It sounded like the name of some kind of underdog superhero, with an underwhelming superpower.

  “Well, this is just the surface. You have to experience what happens in one of the back rooms to really see what goes on here. Those rooms are for members only, but I know someone who works here who can hook you up!” She winked, making it obvious that she was the girl who worked here who was now going to hook me up. “What type of kinky play are you in the mood for?” she asked. This was a very good question—what did I want to do?

  To see Naomi dominate someone, turn to page 97.

  To see Naomi get dominated, turn to page 106.

  Rachel brought me to a back room. I felt bad leaving Ashey behind—he seemed a little bereft as I walked away. Hopefully another smoker would come along and fill the void, or, more accurately, the ashtray. The room was home to some kind of long, leather, rectangular bondage ottoman with hooks on the side. There was a cage with a leather mattress on top of it, and a wall with a grate on it that was covered with whips and paddles and cuffs and strap-ons galore. So many different torture devices—some were self-explanatory (like a paddle or a flogger) and some, well some weren’t. For instance, there was a giant 2,000-watt lithium battery connected to nipple clamps. I suppose if there was a power outage someone’s nipples could be used as a generator, or something.

  “I’ll be right back with your own personal assigned slave,” she said excitedly.

  “Well, alright!” I said.

  “I’ve got one you’ll have a lot of fun with. He’s here to serve you. He’s interested in corporal punishment, and some dildo training, and of course whatever might please you!”

  “You know I have no real experience with this, right? I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I said.

  “Oh, he’s a pain slut! He wants to get hurt!” She laughed and pulled down a thick paddle that looked like it had some extra padding on it, along with a giant flogger and a harness with a decently sized cock on it. Like, a nine-incher, or something in that range.

  “Here’s some good beginner toys to play with. They look like they hurt a lot more than they actually do—see?” She grabbed the flogger and swiftly snapped it against me. It was an exciting little shock to my system, and I giggled.

  “You can go as hard as you want with it and it won’t break the skin. Don’t worry.” Her explanation was so matter-of-fact, for a sex toy demonstration. “The safe-word we use here is ‘mercy,’ so STOP IMMEDIATELY if he says that. And since you’re not using any hoods or gags, we don’t need an alternate,” she added. “Oh, and use one of these condoms for the strap-on.” She pointed to a red leather box full of condoms. I loved how everything here was made of leather. Seriously, even the trash cans.

  It took me a moment to process all this, but it made sense. The anticipation of this controlled torture play date was already exciting me far more than any “real” date I’d been on in a while. “Got it!” I said. It was incredible to see how fierce and dominant Rachel’s personality was here. At Club 42 she was so demure, and so polite, and so soft-spoken. Here, she was assertive. I’d have agreed to just about anything she asked me to do. I suppose ... that’s what a dominatrix specializes in, after all.

  “I’ll go get him. In the meantime, get changed!” She handed me a leather corset that zipped down the middle, along with the harness.

  I removed my sophisticated suburban department store clothing and put on the corset. I was thankful that it zipped down the middle—it felt like a cheater, intro-to-corset garment, and I was okay with that. I pulled up the harness, and chuckled to myself that my pants were a penis. The penis itself was rather sturdy and covered a good amount of the surface area around my crotch. A whole bunch of thigh-high boots in various sizes were lined up in the corner of the room. I grabbed a pair and put them on. Zipping up my entire thigh in tight PVC was like giving my skin a shiny makeover. I stood tall, holding the flogger, with my boots and my large erect cock, and I felt powerful, and also horny, but this was a very different kind of horny for me. It was like my ego was horny. I wanted to fill my sexual senses with power. I didn’t just want to get off, I wanted someone to work for it.

  Rachel opened the door and brought in a guy in his mid-thirties. He wore a black T-shirt and a black button- down, and he had a latex mask on his face with the eyes, mouth, and nose holes cut out. He also had unhooked leather cuffs around his hands and his ankles. I liked this aesthetic. It was like business professional and kinky at the same time. I couldn’t tell what his face looked like, but it also didn’t matter. He was there to do whatever I said!

  “Now, BEHAVE!” Rachel said to the slave. She caught my eye and smiled as she walked out.

  “How can I serve you, Mistress?” he said. Wow. What a polite and exciting way to address me. I’d never been anyone’s Mistress before, and I didn’t want to get too ahead of myself, but I did have an appointment at the DMV next week to get a new license, and I was already wondering if “Mistress” could be my legal prefix. I thought I’d feel awesome all the time.

  I peered down at my big cock, and I looked at the slave.

  “You can start by getting down on your knees and sucking my cock,” I said.

  He immediately did exactly as I said, attempting to get as much of my cock down his throat as he could. I knew what he was going through. I’d done the same thing when I’d had post-breakup sex with one of my ex-boyfriends, thinking one good blow job could reel him back in. That type of blow-for-your-life job was what I was getting right now. He stopped and gasped for air, and I smacked him on the cheek.

  “Did I tell you to stop?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Mistress!” he replied, and seriously, he sounded so genuinely sorry. I wanted to accept his apology, but I knew I couldn’t.

  “Sorry? I don’t think you’re sorry. I think you just can’t handle my cock.” I was full of zingers, I just don’t know where they came from.

  “No, Mistress! Let me prove myself to you. Please.” I could see genuine remorse and fe
ar in his big brown eyes.

  “If you can’t suck my cock like a real man, then what good are you?” I said. He opened his mouth and tried to suck my cock again, and I pulled away.

  “Lay down,” I said. I pointed at the leather ottoman. He already had cuffs on his hands and legs, so it was simple to hook him onto the furniture.

  My strap-on covered the front of my pussy, but I was able to lift it up just a little, and the opening between the two leather straps was just enough room for my lips to be exposed. I sat down on my slave’s face, and he knew exactly what to do.

  “You need to earn my cock back. Let’s see how good a sex toy you can be,” I commanded.

  The latex on his face created such a smooth sensation against my pussy. Also, I won’t lie, the thrill of having no idea who this man was made me horny. He was a faceless thing, whose purpose was to serve me. He was nothing but a skinny rod with a tongue. He stuck that talented tongue out, and I rode up and down his face, sliding back and forth on his smooth mask, suffocating him with my pussy. His strong tongue was flat against my clit, providing the perfect pressure for me to grind back and forth. I pushed myself deeper into his mouth, so he could swallow and taste my sweet moisture. I had a little bit of goofy fun for a moment and improvised, rubbing my clit right on his nose. I have a very sensitive clit, and just about anything feels good up against it, okay?

  I got back to his tongue. Then, I parked my pussy on him and sat still.

  “Alright, well, I’m tired of moving myself around. You need to make me cum already,” I said. The slave started furiously moving his tongue in little flickers, at a speed faster than some of my vibrators. It’s amazing how much effort a man can put into pussy eating when he’s frightened. He started sucking on my clit, and I felt the heat of his breath flowing through my insides. It all felt amazing, but I couldn’t let him know how well he was doing. I kept my moans to myself. He continued to lick me ferociously, his tongue muscles put to the test. I didn’t know how often he did this, but he must have practiced at home. The man had stamina.