•If you enter a play area and are not playing, we kindly ask that you whisper or not talk.
•NO PROSTITUTION Anyone who solicits prostitution, engages in prostitution, or appears to be involved in prostitution will be removed from the premises immediately, and their membership revoked.
•NO JOKING ABOUT PROSTITUTION.
•NO DRUGS
•NO GUNS OR WEAPONS OF ANY KIND shall be permitted on the premises.
•No cameras, cell phone cameras, or recording devices are permitted for use. All personal items must be checked at the welcome desk in the lobby and picked up as you leave Sanctuary.
I sign and date at the bottom, handing it back to Derek. "Sounds reasonable," I remark with a smile. He takes that exact moment to snap a picture of me with his cell phone camera, and less than a minute later, his label printer spits out a color copy with the imprint of "Guest" over the top. It doesn't have my name on it, thank God, and I notice later that none of the paying club members have to wear any identification tags, but their hands are ink stamped with a male ♂ or a female ♀ symbol.
"You ready?" Shelby asks, eager to get to the fun stuff. "You can put your purse in my locker right here."
I put my small handbag in the locker, and Shelby spins the combination lock and directs me toward the bar area, which is right outside the lobby.
"Let's have a drink at the bar to relax," Shelby suggests.
"Fine by me," I reply with relief.
"What can I get for you lovely ladies?" the bartender asks.
"Two cosmopolitans, Grady," Shelby says. "Put it on my tab."
Our drinks arrive in a few moments, and I readily take several long sips. I'm starting to get really anxious. I need some preliminary information from Shelby. "Okay, Shell, after this, what is the routine?" I ask.
She laughs good-naturedly. "Well, hopefully, you'll be relaxed enough to go with the flow. There is no routine, per se. But since this is your first time, how about I act as your guide? I'll refrain from playing this evening. I don't want you to feel abandoned. We'll start off with some quirky stuff, and then work our way to the more sensual playrooms. Won't go to the real kinky rooms this evening."
"Perfect," I reply, exhaling a soft sigh of relief. A prude I was not, but I wasn't ready for any really gross kink just yet.
3
Wake-up Call
"Her fingers moved! Did you see that Easton?" my mother's excited voice floats up to my ears, and I realize she's talking about me. I never thought the fact that my fingers moved would set off such joy and relief.
And then I realize my Coma-World is lifting. I can feel things—pain for one. I feel pain all over, and for a brief second, I want to go back to Coma-World, where at least the pain didn't resonate throughout my body.
I hear someone groan.
"She's in pain," my father announces. "Nurse quickly, my daughter's in pain here."
My eyes flutter open, and it's been so long since I've seen the light, I have to squint to make out who's here with me. I blink several times, and then my sight gets into focus, and mere shadows become my parents. Both wearing concerned looks of relief.
"Mom? Daddy?" I croak out. I don't think my voice has come back from Coma-World yet. It hurts like hell to talk. My tongue feels like it's stuck against something or is numb.
"Honey, they removed the ventilator from you yesterday morning. That's probably why your voice isn't back yet, and your mouth is sore. Just relax. The doctor is coming in to check you. We love you, Carson."
I smile and nod my return 'I love you too' and notice that Daddy is so quiet. I reach my hand out to him. Tubes are going into it, but he steps over and takes my hand. "Carson," he says, his voice is filled with compassion and love, "we will find whoever did this to you, and make sure they never hurt anyone again. I promise."
The doctor comes bustling in, a woman who looks to be in her early to mid-forties, dark hair pulled up in a knot, and some dark-rimmed glasses. But she has a warm smile on her face when she sees I'm awake.
"Welcome back, Ms. Matthews," she greets, my chart in her hands. "Let's see how you're doing today."
After twenty minutes of poking and prodding, she spills the news that I will need to stay in the hospital a few more days, and will have my work cut out for me with physical therapy in stages.
"Don't worry," she assures me before leaving my room, "I've assigned Krew Beckett to be your physical therapist. He's one of the best, and I just know you two will get on splendidly."
4
No pain, no gain.
Dr. Talbert is now officially on my hit list! Great physical therapist, indeed! Satan, thy name is Krew Beckett!
I'm barely back from Coma-World when dark brown-hair, green-eyed and yes, quite hot looking dude comes strutting into my hospital room early one morning, carrying a clipboard and as I later see, an attitude!
"Ms. Matthews," he greets cheerily, "I'm Krew Beckett, your physical therapist, and my job is to get you off your ass and back into the active collegiate world! My goal is to get you back on the jogging track at Columbia as soon as possible. It will require hard work and tenacity, but I'm sure you can produce." He tosses a panty-melting wink at me, which serves to piss me off even further since it's way too early for any of this crap.
"Excuse me? Before I entrust anyone with my physical well-being, what exactly are your credentials?" I ask, and yes, I'm kind of snippy about it, I admit.
"Oh I get it," he replies with a wide grin. "Wanna make sure I'm a product of an appropriate Ivy League institution, right? Well, I assure you, I'm top-shelf babe."
Full of yourself much?
"Whatever," I respond, not hiding my disinterest. "I'm not really feeling up to it just yet–Krew, is it?"
"Krew it is," he replies with a smug smile. "And quite frankly, it's not up to you. It's under your attending doctor's orders."
Now my dander is up. "I don't give a flying fuck who's orders you've been given, I'm telling you right here and now that I'm not ready for this. I'm still in pain. So if you don't–"
My words stop when Daddy comes into my hospital room, having heard at least part of my diatribe against Krew Beckett.
"Is there a problem?" my father asks, looking at me and only me.
"Umm, Daddy," I remark, giving him my soulful look. "This . . . this therapist wants me to get out of bed and do some sort of torturous physical therapy, which I know will be excruciating. It's just too early," I whine, giving him a pleading look. "The pain is still so debilitating."
Then Krew butts in. "Hello Mr. Matthews. I'm Krew Beckett," he says, holding his hand out to shake my father's. "Dr. Talbert has ordered Carson's physical therapy to start today. There's a graduated plan, and yes, it's not going to be pain-free, but the most important thing is to start early with this, so there's no permanent damage to muscles or nerves. You don't want her to have chronic pain, I'm sure. Especially with the current opioid epidemic in this country, I'm sure you'll agree this is a much safer and healthier option, Sir."
Oh, brother!
"Carson," my father says calmly, but firmly, "You need to cooperate with this therapeutic strategy. Dr. Talbert is one of the best around. You didn't survive this without the strength and tenacity you already possess. Now I want you to put that strength and determination to use here. You can do this, and you will be that much stronger for having succeeded."
Yes, Daddy.
"Sure, I'll do my best," I reply, giving him a warm, loving smile.
"That's my girl," Daddy replies, giving me his fatherly look of approval.
I. Hate. You. Krew. Beckett.
To say Krew Beckett is the Master of Torture is an understatement. He is more like the King Nazi of Human Torture. This 'starting off slow' thing is clearly a figment of his imagination.
The words spewing from my mouth are not only filthy, but in some cases, can be considered viable threats. But Krew seems to enjoy my verbal abuse.
"Such a filthy mouth. If
only you'd put as much energy in those leg presses," he teases, cracking another one of his dazzling smiles.
He moves the steel pin downward, adding another ten pounds of weight to the machine. "Give me ten more, and then we're done with this one for today. And don't lock your knees this time, Princess."
I groan and push against the leg press. With each repetition, I feel the burn, which Krew says, is a sure sign I'm working the correct muscles against the resistance. I manage to crank out another ten, bitching and groaning almost the entire time, but thankfully the last one is history for today anyway.
"Great job, now on to the elliptical machine. We'll start your upper body therapy once Dr. Talbert gives the green light your ribs are fully healed. Probably right after Thanksgiving," he says cheerily.
"Ugh," I moan. "Seriously, this whole therapy crap is gonna be that long term?"
"Come on, Princess," he says, with a hurt look on his handsome face, "I'm starting to think you don't enjoy my company."
The truth is, I didn't enjoy anything that was an offshoot of that horrible October night.
5
The Dream Sequence Always Rings Twice
There's a brass plate hanging over the double doors of the first studio Shelby and I come to after leaving the bar area.
"Holy Glory," I read aloud. "What's in here?" I turn and ask Shelby. She has a broad smile on her face.
"Oh, I truly think you need to see this," she replies, "And the good thing is, there'll be some other voyeurs in here so it won't look weird."
She opens the door, and I follow her inside. Soft jazz music is playing in surround sound, and from around the room, I see the bare backsides of about a half dozen men, all shapes, sizes, and races, and several women also, bent over facing front, with their asses pressed against the walls.
I'm totally confused at first, taking it all in, and then I realize the purpose. The dark crushed velvet walls have oblong, vertical holes in them, allowing unseen people behind those walls to provide members with handjobs, blowjobs, or in some cases, presenting their asses or pussies up for penetration by the members.
I creep around the spacious square room watching mostly men as they are being tended to by whoever is on the other side of the crushed velvet-covered walls being serviced. An older man is having his cock sucked and jacked by a petite, obviously female hand on the other side. His head is tilted back, eyes closed as he rocks back and forth on his heels, groaning and instructing her to jack him harder so he can squirt on her face when he's ready. Her hands and wrists are moving frantically to bring him to climax. I notice she has long, beautifully polished nails, and a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist of a heart, with the initials' J.W.' inside of it.
I don't stick around because frankly, it seems creepy to gawk at anyone who's facing the wall. Then I see someone who is facing the inside of the room. It's a thirty-something woman who looks a lot like a human version of the cartoon character Olive Oyl from the old Popeye cartoons I used to watch on Cartoon Network as a little kid.
She's skinny with pale alabaster skin, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, her eyes squeezed shut as she has her ass backed up to the hole, the fingers on one of her hands fiddling with her clit, while a big, thick black cock thrusts in and out of her pussy from behind the glory hole. She's got a high-pitched squeal going on as the owner of the dick pummels into her hard and fast. I notice he's not wearing a condom.
Interesting.
The low to high octave guttural sounds of moaning and groaning pleasure, sputtered words such as 'Oh God', 'Oh yeah,' 'Keep sucking me,' I'm ready to come,' and 'Fuck me harder,' permeate throughout the room. Various levels of urgency and ragged breathing are the refrains to these raspy songs of carnal pleasure, and immediately, I feel the pull from just watching it all in up close and personal action. Their moments vary from slow, undulated thrusts, to frantic pounding as they wait for imminent release.
Shelby and I quietly observe as we move to various spots inside this studio, and I notice some of the men are wearing condoms, while others are going pure bareback, wanting the skin-to-skin contact with the pussies they're fucking. Echoes of the female pleasure on the other side of the glory hole wall reverberate outside, making the whole erotic experience of being a voyeur to this exciting. My own pussy tingles with fascination, and yes, with a longing to be a part of it, even though I know this is probably the epitome of getting 'some strange.'
Several of the inhabitants of the room successfully get their nut, pulling their glistening cocks out and then use baby wipes to clean off.
One of the females, who's been bucking her ass against the padded wall, shrieks her pleasure as the cock on the other side brings her to a long, deep orgasm that leaves her twitching and gasping for air. The last person we see is a fortyish looking heavyset member, who is on his knees, sucking the dick of whoever is behind the glory hole.
"Who's behind the walls?" I whisper to Shelby as we proceed out of the Holy Glory room. "Are those other members of the club?"
"Nooo," she says, chuckling. "They are paid staff."
"If they're paying people to do sexual acts or receive sexual acts, well, isn't that technically sex for hire?"
Shelby stops before we take another step. "Look, Carson, they are paid staff. They get "X" amount of money per hour, whether they're busy or not. So no, technically, it is within the law. I'm contemplating picking up some extra bucks myself working a four-hour shift, which is all that's required. It pays a hundred bucks an hour - cash. Cha-Ching."
I think about that for a moment. It sure as hell doesn't appeal to me.
"C'mon," she says, "Let's go to my favorite lounge."
I follow Shelby down the hallway. She stops at the third set of doors on the left. I glance at the brass plate next to the doors.
"Studio Masquerade," I say aloud, "Okay, prepare me."
"Now this studio is simply a voyeur stop for me. I've never participated, but it's really worth watching. So we can grab a seat behind the glass partition. That's where the observation seating is. That's all I'm going to tell you," she replies, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "I think you'll love it. Follow me."
I follow her inside the room, noting the theatre-style seating and the glass partition separating the audience from the stage. Several people are already seated. I give Shelby a quizzical look.
"Be patient," she murmurs, "These are kind of like erotic plays. They only run once a night, and it's due to start in a few minutes. The people involved choreograph it, but the interesting thing is, they actually don't know who the other participants are until they hit the stage, wild huh?"
I feel my forehead crease in confusion. "So, it's like a play, where the participants only learn their parts? And then go into the production cold?" I ask.
"Exactly. Each week there's a new performance," she explains, "the week prior, club members who wish to be included in the following week's production pull a role based on their gender from a locked box out in the lobby, and they then have to act out that role."
After ten minutes, the studio lighting brightens, and a door behind the stage opens, and the players file out, one by one. They are in various forms of dress, based on their genders, but all are wearing black masquerade which covers the upper portions of their face.
The sound of instrumental music flows through the sound system, and a male, with an ornate masquerade mask, wearing a black top hat, red velvet cape, and carrying a crop, takes center stage. He reminds me of a ringmaster in a circus, which is clearly his role in this live production, I soon find out. He's the only one with lines.
In the performance line-up, there are four men and four women.
"It's showtime," Shelby announces softly. "This is gonna totally blow your mind, Carson."
And I watch as the sexual depravity begins. Punishment, chokeholds, anal rape, it's all there.
The memory startles me awake. My heart is pounding, and my breathing is strained. My eyes adjust to the darkness a
nd I calm, realizing I'm safely tucked into my own bed at home. So glad to be out of the hospital, out of New York City, but I'm certainly not out of the woods.
The dreams I've been having aren't normal at all. They seem to be bits and pieces of a reality I don't remember. And I know why. When I wake, the reactions are always the same: heart pounding, palms sweating, and shallow breathing. My sudden awakening from these is my escape, which is both comforting and frustrating, which I know makes no damn sense.
But my shrink says, in time, I will remember. She says my emotional healing takes time, maybe even more time than my physical healing.
I roll to my side, and then quickly roll back. My physical therapy is finally over, and as much as I hated it, I can't deny that it's done the job in chasing away the pain. My ribs no longer hurt, and I don't even require the medical marijuana I was prescribed any longer.
I finished the P.T. in mid-December, but immediately after, the psychological therapy commenced. And just as expected, the emotional healing was becoming the most painful bitch of all.
My shrink, Dr. Kingsley, has explained that these dreams are termed as Recollection Memory Dreams. In time, she assures me, I will have the full picture if I continue to get therapy, to allow those dreams to provide the full story.
PART TWO
Present Day
6
Back in the Saddle - Almost
One thing you need to know about me is that I'm a lot stronger than my family gives me credit. So on Memorial Day weekend, when I announce I'm returning to Columbia, starting with summer session the following week, I watch as my family turns to stone. "Hey, I can knock out a few electives for my degree program, and get back in the saddle again for next semester," I explain.
Wicked Love Page 2
