by Nikki Chase
The bright spotlight and the harsh shadows it casts make the girls appear unreal, like they’re just a figment of my imagination, like my hand would only touch air if I tried to reach out to them.
The girls fold their legs and sit on their feet. That can’t be a comfortable position to hold for long. I wonder how much they’re being paid or if they’re being paid at all.
According to Monica, the girl who introduced me to this job, some people would happily work here for free because they enjoy it.
I don’t get it.
How can that be enjoyable?
Aside from the numbness that must have taken over those girls’ legs, they’re also bound by thick, strong ropes with a rough texture that must be itchy on the skin.
The girls’ hands are restrained by ropes, too, in such a way that one girl’s covering her eyes, while another girl’s covering her ears, and the last girl’s covering her mouth. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
Except that’s highly ironic, considering their presence alone is a sign of the outrageously decadent depravation that goes on inside the club.
The Succubus, this club’s called. I’ve heard the name spoken in hushed whispers over the years, but I used to think this place was just urban legend.
That’s why, when Monica offered me the job, I laughed at first until I realized she was serious.
She said her fashion boutique was just a side gig, and her real job was handling recruitment for The Succubus. That was when I realized how she could afford her high-flying lifestyle when her boutique was always empty.
She offered me five-thousand dollars for one night’s work, and I said yes. But truth be told, I was sold as soon as she mentioned the club’s name.
And that’s why I’m here tonight, walking into The Succubus with a bunch of other waitresses.
Just like the lobby, the main area of the club is dark. Men in sharp business suits sit in plushy chairs that look like the seats in the cinema.
Even though there are plenty of empty chairs, most of the girls aren’t in them. Instead, they’re kneeling on the floor by their masters’ feet.
Yes, The Succubus is a BDSM club. Almost anything goes here.
The women are in all states of undress—some are even completely naked, except for the collars around their necks.
I see a handful of women wearing dresses that wouldn’t look out of place in a normal club. They stick out like a sore thumb here.
These women look uncomfortable; scared, even. They keep glancing around nervously while secretly peeking at the explicit sexual acts being done out in the open, right in front of them.
In my trench coat, I’m just as overdressed as they are, and I’m just as scared as they are—maybe even more.
Most of the men are facing the stage where three women are being tied up with ropes, chains, and cuffs. Still, some turn their heads as the waitresses—including me—walk past, knowing that soon we’re going to be on the floor, entertaining them.
I had my reservations about taking this job. I mean, waitressing in my underwear is one thing, but getting naked and on my knees while sucking some old businessman’s cock is another thing entirely.
But, contrary to the rumors that are going around, The Succubus is not an evil institution. It’s not even dangerous. Most importantly, it doesn’t entrap young women into a miserable existence of servitude.
The women who wear collars and are doing the raunchiest things in this room came with their masters. In other words, they could be those men’s wives, girlfriends, or even friends with benefits.
What I’m trying to say is, it’s all completely consensual, and as far as the club knows, no money changes hands between these couples.
What I’m going to be doing tonight is thoroughly different. I’m getting paid to do this, but I’m not taking anybody’s cock tonight—that would be prostitution, which is illegal.
Oh, and I also don’t know any of these men. That’s kind of a big reason why I’m not just going to bend over for them.
All I’ve been told about these men is they’re wealthy and influential. Apparently, it costs a fortune to gain and maintain membership to The Succubus. On top of that, they need to have the right connections and pass a slew of verification checks. They could be politicians, actors, or CEOs.
I’m curious what these men look like, and I wonder if there’s anyone I’d recognize by sight. But with the darkness and the masks that they wear, it’s almost impossible to find out.
Yet, the darkness doesn’t stop them from staring at us. I can feel their hot gazes on me, heating up my insides with fear and excitement.
I don’t even know what any of these men look like, but sexual energy permeates the air here. I can’t help but breathe it in and become a part of it.
This is going to be an interesting night . . .
“So in conclusion, you’re going to be agreeable and obedient. Supplicant, even,” says Kendra, the manager of the waitresses. “Any questions?”
All the girls who came in with me are gathered around Kendra’s desk in the back room. Everyone’s slipped out of their day clothes and is wearing something more sultry.
Looking around the room, I see high heels, red lips, smoky eyes, and little bits of lace on little bits of fabric.
A waitress in The Succubus doesn’t have a uniform, but she does have to look the part of someone who works in a sexy, kinky club.
In practice, most of us are wearing some kind of lingerie. If a girl’s ‘inappropriately dressed’ (a term that, interestingly, means the opposite of what it means in the real world), Kendra will approach her and tell her how to fix her wardrobe.
A pretty blonde girl lifts her hand. She’s wearing cute, pink, cotton underwear. I wonder if she has a Daddy fetish. As if to confirm my suspicion, in a high voice, she asks, “Are we allowed to say no?”
“Of course. Like I said before, we do have safe words,” Kendra says. “All our club members know to stop everything if you say ‘red.’ You can also say ‘yellow’ if you need to take a short break. Any more questions?”
“How far do we go . . . I mean, with those men . . . I mean . . . My friend told me there’s no sex involved,” a different girl asks, stammering from nervousness. Like about eighty percent of the room, including me, she’s wearing black lace bra-and-panties set. (It’s the easiest way to look classy in cheap underwear. Not all of us want to buy lingerie specifically for this job.)
“Aww . . . It’s cute how you can’t even say it. Some men are really into that,” Kendra says, appraising the girl who asked the question with her keen eyes. “Your friend was wrong. There may be sex involved.”
Murmurs fill the room as girls whisper to each other in low voices.
Kendra smiles, satisfied by the level of chaos her statement has caused. “By that, I mean we’re not going to make you have sex with anybody, but we’re not going to stop you either.
“There’s a lot of sexy vibes in the air out there,” Kendra continues. “I know. I’ve been there. I worked as a waitress here when I was younger. But now I’m old and wrinkled, and it’s your time to shine.”
“What are you talking about, Kendra?” a girl asks. “You’re gorgeous.”
A chorus of ass-kissers agree with the first girl.
“Okay, stop it,” Kendra says, giggling, clearly happy to hear all the compliments she’s fished for. “Anyway, what I’m saying is, it’s easy to get carried away out there. Our members are powerful men, and I don’t know about you, but power is sexy to me.
“If you find yourself in a sexy situation, feel free to let go. Do whatever you like. I’ll just say it: you can take a sex break any time you want, with any patron you like, as long as they want you, too.
“So if there’s someone who catches your eye . . . We’re not going to stop you from giving him a good time and making him want to come back.” Kendra smiles.
“Are we allowed to socialize with the men, like, outside the club?” asks a girl wea
ring Playboy bunny ears on her head.
“Of course,” Kendra says. “You’re not slaves. The slave thing is just role play. You’re free. You can socialize with anyone you want. You can meet them outside. We don’t care, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your work.”
Every word Kendra says helps calm my nerves. I was worried about what to expect. Since this is an exclusive, secret club, it’s not like I can just Google it. But The Succubus seems to take safety seriously.
Even though it looks like the land of the lawless outside, there’s actually a bunch of rules that governs every interaction here. If anybody breaks a rule, the beefy security guys are always around to fix the situation.
All of these safeguards make me feel better about my prospects here. I don’t have to worry about some old, greasy creep touching me without permission.
In a lot of ways, the workplace conditions here are better than bars and lounges that hire lingerie waitresses. Those places are happy to turn a blind eye to harassment by creepy customers who offer the girls money to go back with them to their dingy hotel rooms.
On the other hand, The Succubus recognizes that harassment happens and puts safety measures in place. Men who repeatedly break the rules may be banned for life by the club.
Still, as I step back into the big, cavernous hall, my heart thumps in my chest.
I stand and watch, mesmerized as the three girls on the stage are locked up in sturdy metal cages with their faces and asses jutting out.
A brawny man, wearing a mask, a plain black shirt, and a pair of dark jeans, circles the cages. He seems to be in charge. He’s the Dom—or dominant male—as Kendra told us during the short briefing.
The Dom on stage runs his hands over the bits of the girls’ skin that stick out of the bars, making them audibly gasp and moan.
There’s something about the way they interact that makes my insides tingle. The absolute power that the man wields and the utter vulnerability of the women in the cages, locked up, restrained, and helpless.
The juxtaposition puts the masculine and the feminine in stark contrast to each other in the most sensual way.
My breathing grows heavy, and I’m not hypocritical enough to say that it’s because I’m scared.
This is bad.
Because while The Succubus is going to protect me from pushy creeps and possible stalkers, they won’t protect me from myself. The lack of clear boundaries scares me, but in a way, it also thrills me.
The possibility of meeting a dominant, powerful stranger stirs my stomach with both fear and anticipation.
I’ve never had any experience with BDSM beyond reading about it in romance novels. Maybe this is the right time to explore it in a safe environment.
Ultra-wealthy people pay a fortune for the privilege to access The Succubus. While I’m here, shouldn’t I enjoy myself?
At the same time, I’ve always regarded my side gigs as just that—side gigs. You know, so I can save up and create some security for my future. There’s a good chance I’ll never have a family and only have myself to rely on, so building a nest egg is one of the few things I take seriously in life.
But if I have sex with a stranger—who may be wearing a mask—while I’m on the job, what does that make me?
I mean, I don’t have a rigid view on morality, but I’d still essentially be doing it (1) with a stranger, and (2) as an optional part of my job.
So, not to get too pedantic and all, but wouldn’t that make me . . . a sex worker?
My skin crawls at the thought. I know some people do it and they’re happy with their choices—good for them. But I don’t know if I can make peace with the thought that I’ve been a sex worker at some point in my life.
Kendra was right. The atmosphere in this place is highly sexual. The air sizzles with tension and unspoken desire.
Multiple men are looking in my direction. I can’t even see their faces, but I can sense their hunger—their masks can’t hide that.
The worst thing? I can feel myself slowly getting sucked into it all, and I don’t think I could stop now if I tried. I want to see what else The Succubus has to offer.
At the very least, I’ll finish my shift tonight.
It’s only one night. What’s the worst that can happen?
If I still feel uncomfortable about it by the end of the night, I’m going to tell Kendra I’m quitting.
See, I’m being sensible.
It’s going to be okay. Nothing life-changing is going to happen tonight.
This is just like any other waitressing job, except with more nudity. The dark and scary image is probably just for branding and marketing purposes.
Yeah, that’s it. I’m completely safe.
. . .
Except from myself.
Adam
Everything in this place has been designed to tease and titillate the senses—from the dim lighting to the three girls in the lobby who look like they’ve been spray-painted gold.
The main hall is dark, protecting the anonymity of the rich and powerful men who sit in the audience. In contrast, the stage is flooded with light, exposing the nakedness and vulnerability of the performers.
I say “performers,” but most of the men on stage are paying customers of The Succubus, and even some of the girls are here by choice.
After all, both dominant men—Doms—and submissive women—subs—are welcome here, as long as they know the right people and pass the rigorous background checks conducted by the club. Oh, and pay the annual membership fee every year, without fail.
I once talked to a guy in The Succubus who told me it had taken him seven years to get approved for a membership the second time. The club had made him jump through hoops to get in again, saying they only had a certain number of spots available and they wanted to make sure those spots went to their most loyal customers.
I hate that the club uses such a cheap tactic to pressure people to keep their memberships active, but I’ll have to admit it works.
Like a sucker, I keep paying the exorbitant fee, even though I haven’t even been here in over a year. The annual membership costs the same as a top-of-the-line Lamborghini, but I can’t bring myself to cancel it.
Maybe it’s stupid to keep paying the fee, but what am I going to do with another car anyway?
This place, though. It keeps luring me back in, whispering false promises that never come true. Every time I leave this place, I feel empty and hopeless.
Still, I keep coming back, hoping to find . . . I don’t know, something. I don’t know what it is I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it.
I take my seat in a quiet corner and glance at the stage. Three girls are locked up in tiny cages while a Dom slides his dick into the one in the middle, making her gasp and whimper. Meanwhile, he pushes his fingers into the other two girls, starting a cacophony of female moans.
My cock stirs in my pants as I sit in my plush chair.
Here we go again. I’m going to go home with blue balls tonight. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself.
The show unfolding on stage is good. It’s great. I don’t have any complaints about it. My dick obviously approves of it.
The problem is, I don’t know what to do with the lust that’s plaguing me right now.
It would be easy enough to find a girl who’ll slip away into one of the private rooms with me. I’ve gotten several offers, both from fellow members of The Succubus and from the waitresses, even though I haven’t even been actively looking.
There’s only one obstacle preventing me from doing just that. I can’t find anyone I want to take into a private room.
It’s not that the girls are unattractive. The Succubus isn’t only strict with its membership criteria, but also its employment criteria. At the very least, every girl who works here is conventionally attractive.
It’s not about what the girls are doing either. I find it hot that they’re often restrained with cuffs and chains, and I like the fact that they’
re obedient and eager to please.
I’ll admit the ropes that bind their bodies light up my imagination with possibilities, but they’re not what I’m looking for.
Let’s face it, though, I’m probably never going to find what I’m looking for.
I used to come here every week for years until it started to interfere with my work. If I was ever going to find it, I would’ve found it then.
A loud crashing sound jars me back to reality.
I turn toward the aisle by my seat and catch sight of a girl crouching on the ground, picking up glasses and pieces of food that she’s dropped from her tray.
“Sorry,” she says in a loud whisper as she looks around at everyone who’s glaring at her because of the noise she made. “I’m so sorry.”
Then, our eyes lock.
It’s ridiculous, but I feel like time has stopped. It’s like in the movies when everything’s in slow motion and Ella James starts singing “At Last.”
She’s beautiful. The dark eyebrows over her big, expressive eyes are pulled together with worry. Her teeth stab her bottom lip, making me want to claim that mouth for myself.
She’s crouching by my chair as she picks up shards of glass with her delicate hands. She’s so close I can almost just grab her and ravish her.
“I’m sorry,” she says, restarting the clock with her voice.
I’ve never had that slow-motion moment in my life before, and this clumsy girl somehow does it for me? What just happened?
“Who are you?” I blurt out.
“Huh?” she asks, tilting her head in the most adorable way.
I clear my throat. There’s no need to get nervous here.
This girl obviously works at The Succubus, which means she knows the rules. She’s broken a few of them already in less than one minute.
“Haven’t you been told how you’re supposed to address me?” I ask.
She freezes, realizing her mistake. “I’m sorry, Sir. I’m so sorry.” Looking around, she adds, “Would you mind not telling anybody about this? I could fix this before it becomes a problem . . . Sir.”
