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Small towns are supposed to be safe—home to idealistic neighborhoods, free from the ugly that taints the world.
Rylan Pierce and Callen Bailer meet at a club the community doesn’t speak about.
Lust drives them together, but depravity cements their bond.
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Sex. Lust. Excess.
This place overwhelms my senses, but Maplefield is a small town, and Utopia is the first of its kind in this area of Connecticut. For a small price, I gained admittance into the club, which wasn’t nearly as difficult as I had thought it would be. Once my one-week probationary period is over, I will get my full-blown membership. Until then, a red lanyard hangs from my neck, telling everyone I’m off-limits and only allowed to observe.
One week never seemed so long before.
“First time here?” A middle-aged woman with porcelain skin sits down at the stool next to me. Her eyes hold that same awestruck quality that I imagine matches my own.
I return a genuine smile. “Yeah. How about you?”
She plays with the lanyard around her own neck. “I’ve been here a couple times this week, but my probation is almost over.”
“Are you here alone?”
The guess to my own question is no. While the woman had no problem striking up a conversation with me, she seems a bit too shy to have come here without someone else.
She points to a group of men across the room. “That man in the blue polo is my husband. A few of his work buddies come here, and it’s always fascinated us, as a couple. We finally decided to check it out.”
“Good for you!”
“What about you? Are you here alone?”
“I don’t think I would have been able to come here without my husband,” she admits.
The unknown, intimidating, or different doesn’t give me anxiety. If anything, it pushes me.
I left behind the last of my vanilla existence the second I walked through that door and signed my name on the dotted line. I need to continue pushing boundaries to discover experiences that curl my toes and paint my fantasies. According to the paperwork, this place will do just that—providing that my behavior here isn’t illegal and is safe for all members, that is. Having sex in front of an audience? That’s perfectly acceptable here. Mixing pain and pleasure? Yes, please! Giving control of my body to another? Permission granted!
I’ve always been curious about sex. Porn became a part of my routine at a young age for a girl, and losing my virginity wasn’t scary for me. It was thrilling. Powerful. I’m not into BDSM culture, and I don’t have any crazy fetishes, but I need excitement. There isn’t much I would say no to until I at least try it once. I have a few hard limits, but I try to stay open. This is the place for me to continue pushing my limits.
“In the past, I’d been with guys who liked routine and predictability, and it drove me mad. I was bored out of my mind. Some would balk if I suggested anything a little outside the box, but others would try, which was almost worse. I’d end up with watered-down versions of what I actually wanted because my exes were too timid or too unimaginative to give me what I needed. As a single woman, if I want more, then I need to go after it.”
Since saying good-bye to the last in a rather long list of disappointments, I’m ready for everything Utopia has to offer because my sexuality is ingrained into the person that I am. Sex has always been how I connect, communicate, and express myself.
This makes my job perfect for someone like me. I’m an explicit sex columnist.
Thanks to my employer, I live, breathe, sleep the world of kink.
“Young, single, and you know what you want. You’re a catch! Wait, I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“Nice to meet you, Rylan. I’m Janet.”
“Good to meet you, too.” I relax and take in the room around us.
Physically, Utopia is as I expected, but the atmosphere is where the expectancy ends. For a place that seems low budget from the outside, it’s actually pretty comfortable inside. Music plays softly throughout the room, and women who bare their flesh dance in cages to their own slow, tantric rhythm. The naked dancers are tame for this world though. They are a part of the decor, the ambiance. Tables fill this front room facing a stage that, for now, is dark and empty. The back rooms are where most of the fun happens and are off-limits to me during my probationary period. So, instead of playing, I’m at the bar, sipping water since alcohol isn’t served here because it blurs the lines of consent.
“I didn’t expect there to be so many people here. Small town and all,” Janet comments.
Our conversation ends before I can respond. A vibration fills the room as the music is cranked louder, and a spotlight hits the stage. Men in leather wheel out a woman hooked up to a sex swing. Her legs are spread open, dangling through straps, and her arms are bound to opposite sides of the contraption. The only thing she’s wearing is a blindfold, and if someone wasn’t paying attention before, they are now. I follow suit, ready for the live sex show. My fellow probationary friend beside me swallows audibly and nods at me before she returns to her husband’s side. He envelops her in a loving hold as they watch.