by Tillie Cole
“Right. Gotcha,” I said, feeling like Alice stepping into a really perverted Wonderland, and looked at the rest of my “uniform”. A black velvet bustier, black French lace barely-there pants, stockings, and stripper heels. There was something else on a hook, but I failed to comprehend what it was.
“You gave us your sizes on the form you filled out.” Bunny indicated for me to enter. “Your clothes will be stored until it is time to go home.” Purple eyes stared at me as I moved into the booth. Bunny didn’t move. I gave her a tight smile when I realized she was going to watch me undress. As I shed my trench coat and dress, Bunny remained unmoving.
“Pussy shaved?” she asked and edged closer to me as I pulled down my panties. Her mouth kicked up at the side. “Good.” She winked at me. “Nice lips.” I knew she wasn’t talking about the ones around my mouth.
“Thank you?” I said, my response lilting up like a question. I was a confident woman. But even I was feeling slight nerves at all of this.
I took a deep breath, shed my bra, and stood there in the nude, trying to pretend that it was no different than being at the gym. I’d never been to the gym, of course, but I’d heard about women swinging low and free, legs perched on benches as they aired out their nether-regions and chatted about the day’s events, their cheating husbands, and the pool boys they were screwing in secret in the guest house.
“You get hot in that thing?” I asked Bunny, pointing to her catsuit, trying for small talk as I put on my French lace panties, stockings, and garters.
“My master enjoys PVC.”
“That a yes?” I smiled, winking at her this time.
At her mute response, I tried to put on my bustier with zero success. Bunny’s hands quickly took over, and she started tying the laces for me. She yanked on the laces, swiftly ripping the air from my lungs. My hands slapped on the wall in front of me to keep my balance.
“Shit. Careful,” I said.
Bunny kept pulling and pulling until I was sure she’d cracked a few ribs. “Can you breathe?” she asked sweetly.
“No!” I squeaked.
“Perfect,” she said and fastened the laces. She bent down and placed the new heels on my feet. I was glad; I feared if I tried to bend over, I’d crash headfirst into the wall and be unable to get back up.
Bunny reached for the one item of clothing I couldn’t make out. I could barely see over my cleavage, it was thrust so high up my chest, but as she stroked the semi opaque fabric, I suddenly realized what it was. “A veil?”
“A veiled mask.” She placed it on my head and hooked a clasp at the back of my skull to keep it in place. The lace fabric fell over my face, dropping to the bottom of my neck, inhibiting my sight. A curtain of black beads created a second layer over the lace. I could only see through it a little. I guessed that was the point of the design.
“Our greatest rule here at NOX is to keep our faces covered at all times.” Bunny’s mouth went close to my ear. “It might seem daunting at first. But believe me, you will love it. It is like nothing else, taking pleasure anonymously. You will feel freer than you ever have before once you just let go.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“At no time will you remove this veil,” Bunny said, back to business. “If you show your true identity at any point, you will be vacated from the club. Maître will not tolerate any form of disobedience. It does not matter how much or little you have paid for a membership, the rule is absolute. Do you understand?”
“Maître?” I asked, my journalist’s ears pricking up almost as tall as Bunny’s. Maître. French for master. The rumors of a French ruling master were almost as famous as the club itself.
Bunny gave the first wide smile I’d seen from her. “Our Maître. The master of the club. The architect of all of this.” Her voice changed from the monotone I had become accustomed to into an excited and heated lilt.
Stepping back to admire her work, Bunny nodded and took the black leather cuffs and, as gentle as a mouse, began fastening them to my wrists. I stared down, able to see her delicate hands locking them firmly in place. I stared at the sight, unable to look away. I was here. I was a NOX siren. And I was suddenly terrified.
“There,” Bunny said, skirting her finger up my bare arms. “You are perfection now. Civilian clothes are so dull. There’s nothing like lace and leather and latex to make you embrace your femininity.”
Bunny led me through another door. As I entered, I squinted through my veil. The room held a few women dressed just like me. There were two men there too, dressed in leather pants and nothing else. If my mythological knowledge was correct, sirens were traditionally perceived as female. Then again, we were in the twenty-first century and men could damn well be sirens too if they wanted to be. NOX was clearly progressive. That was a tick in my book.
“Sit down here,” Bunny said. I dropped to my knees, sitting back on my haunches like the other sirens were doing. Bunny spoke to a man at the front of the room. “She is the last,” Bunny said and walked away.
The man at the front of the room was dressed in PVC pants, his torso bare. A floor-length cloak with a large hood was wrapped around him. The hood covered half of his face, but I could see the mask he wore, of the Venetian variety. Gold, with short red feathers adorning the edges. “In NOX no one will use their names. It helps us protect our identities.” I caught sight of his rippling abs. “In your role as a siren, you must always answer with “Yes, sir” or “Yes, ma’am” when speaking to members. That includes me.”
“Sir” moved back to the front of the room. “Soon you will enter the main body of NOX. We have an array of members here. It is not only singletons who gain membership. Many of the people who attend NOX are couples too. We scout and invite sirens into the club for those wishing to experiment, to add other members to their sexual endeavors. And for your own pleasure too.” I could hear my heart beating in my ears, nerves swooping in my stomach.
“As a siren, your experience in NOX could be vast. You might find yourself playing the part of a submissive, or a sexual pet to a master. Or the person or persons you join may want you to be in charge, they might desire to serve you. We all have different sexual preferences and needs and that stands for you too. As a siren, you hold a great power. You are desired here, practically revered and worshipped by our members. You can refuse any advances, of course. And you are in the lucky position where most of the members’ pleasure will be focused on you.” I was getting hot. The air seemed to crackle around me.
“Whoever you partner up with, it is up to you to decide what you will do with them, what you like and what you don’t. NOX is everyone’s greatest sexual fantasy come to life. We want it to be yours too. You are not less than because you do not pay a membership, on the contrary. We want all our members to feel safe and to enjoy themselves.”
He paused and began walking up and down the room. Like the changing rooms, this room was dark with low lighting. “If you do not want to participate with someone, politely decline. No one will argue. If they do, they will be removed. Everything we do here is one hundred percent consensual.” When he stood at the top of the room again, he said, “Now that has been said, we are ready.”
A door opened and immediately the low dulcet tone of trance music came pounding into the room. Screams and moans of ecstasy sailed on those heavy beats and slammed straight into my chest.
I got to my feet and followed the other sirens into the main room. I glanced up through my veil and, even with hazy vision, my eyes widened at the sights before me. I could only describe it as a vast basement of debauchery. Men and women writhed in every part of the space. Dim red lights seductively kissed both naked and clothed bodies. A pit at the bottom of the room swirled with enraptured bodies like a moving oil painting being crafted by an erotic artist—kissing, oral sex, fingers and toys, intercourse, and heads thrown back, mouths screaming out in pleasure. My mind raced at the thought of being in the center of that pit.
What would it be
like to be touched by that many people?
I jumped in shock as a hand skimmed up my leg. I looked down, under my veil, to see a man in a cloak and mask lounging on the floor, with another man kissing along every inch of his bare stomach. “Join us?” he asked. He smiled at me under his red demonic-horned mask.
“Sorry,” I blurted, my nerves taking over. “I’m just window shopping for now.” I winced at how pathetic I sounded.
I stepped away and quickly searched the room. As Bunny and Sir had said, all faces were covered with masks—cats, bunnies, masks in Egyptian and Venetian styles. Demons, angels, and multicolored carnival facades. Vibrant pink, red, and black eyes stared at us as we passed through, contacts disguising the members’ only distinguishable features.
A high-pitched scream cut through the hypnotic music, and my head snapped to the left. My mouth fell open as I clapped eyes on a woman, wearing an outfit made only from leather straps, tied to a St Andrew’s Cross. She was getting whipped by a man in a gold mask, carved with an evilly laughing mouth. Pink welts littered her skin. The man saw my interest.
“Come. I’d be honored to flog you too.”
“I would, but I…erm…I have too sensitive skin,” I said, mumbling my words. “I bruise like a peach.” The man bowed at me then went back to whipping his partner. I tried to seek out the other sirens. My stomach rolled when I saw them joining couples, some entering other rooms.
Come on, Faith, I said to myself. Stop being such a pussy.
I moved through each room, the sights melting into one libidinous blur. Two women were strung up from the ceiling by ropes like roasting hogs at a barbeque. Human tables and chairs were scattered around the floor, people’s feet and drinks resting on their backs. Men and men kissed, women and women groped, and orgies ten people deep rolled on the biggest beds I’d ever seen.
My feet faltered when I saw men dressed as ponies trotting by, a mistress in red PVC holding their reins and whipping them with a large crop when they displeased her. My head throbbed in sync with the trance music at sights I’d only ever seen in films. Hell, some I’d never seen at all. Amelia had been right. This was more than I’d ever bargained for.
A “pony” stopped beside me. The mistress ran her crop down my arm. “Are you interested?” she asked.
Pony play was too friggin’ much for me. “Sorry. I’m allergic to horses,” I said and scurried away, face blazing at my stupid excuse. I needed a break. I needed to gather my thoughts and kick my own ass for being such a wimp.
I searched for somewhere to go, unable to find my way around. I passed fully stocked bars, where NOX members lounged and drank, laughing with friends like they were at any other bar in Manhattan. Thong-wearing submissives acted as tables. One man lifted his sub’s face and pushed her between his legs without interrupting his conversation with his friend. His jaw clenched as she blew him in front of us. Then I turned to my right, just as a woman smashed her crotch over the face of a man wrapped in chains beneath her.
“Queening,” I whispered, a traitorous nervous laugh slipping from my mouth as I imagined Amelia’s face, seeing this in action.
I saw what I assumed was a bathroom beside the main bar. After darting across the floor, avoiding the many offers flying my way, I pushed through the door…only to stop dead in my tracks. It wasn’t a bathroom. It was a dark room with several swings attached to metal frames, some wooden crosses, and I couldn’t make out what else. Four women were swinging from the leather swings, which held their wrists and ankles. I began backing away. “Sorry,” I said to the man in the center, holding a whip made of horsehair.
“Join us,” he said, “we have room to spare.” I started shaking my head. I backed away, praying I’d find the door that second. My shoulder bumped a metal pole, knocking me offtrack. I stumbled in my heels, but I managed to find purchase on the frame of an empty swing, which stopped me from hitting the floor.
It all happened so fast. My unsteady grip on the metal swing caused it to topple over…knocking down all the other swings in the room. It was a cacophony of metal crashing against metal and screams from the women tied up in leather swings and unable to get away. I tried to help the man stop the wreckage, but it was in vain.
My cheeks flamed with embarrassment as the bar staff entered the room to help. When the final crash of metal ended, I felt several pairs of eyes fixed on me.
“Whoops,” I said, grimacing under my veil.
A hand landed on my back. Through my veil I saw the familiar Venetian mask of the “sir” who had been tasked with watching over us tonight. He led me through the club. I kept my eyes to the floor. I’d fucked up. I was going to get thrown out. I just knew it. Sadness swept through me. I wouldn’t get the feature. Sally was going to kill me.
Sir led me to the room we had started in that night. “Are you okay?” he asked. I wanted to cry at how nice he was being to me.
“Yes.” I sighed. “Believe me when I say this is nothing new to me. I’m a bit of a calamity.”
“No one was hurt,” he said, but there was also no reassurance that I wasn’t about to be thrown out on my lace-clad ass. Sir started to say something, but the phone on the wall rang. It made me jump. Sir answered it. I tried to hear who was on the other end, but I couldn’t. “Okay, Maître.”
My eyes widened. Maître. The legendary master of the club.
“Yes, Maître,” Sir said and hung up the phone. He turned to me. “Maître has requested your presence.”
I was rooted to the spot. Maître wanted to see me. The maître. I’d heard of him, of course. Rumors of NOX in New York were nothing to the secret whisperings about the man that ruled the club with an iron fist. The mysterious Frenchman who ruled his sexual kingdom from his throne, his loyal subjects worshipping at his feet.
The door behind us opened, and Bunny came through. “She is to be taken straight to him in his quarters,” Sir said to her.
“Yes, sir.”
Bunny led me from the room and toward black padded elevator doors. As the doors opened, it was to find the elevator covered wall to wall in red velvet.
Bunny pulled me inside and pressed the button for the top floor. “Be honest,” I said, “am I getting kicked out?”
“I have no idea what Maître wants. He’s not an easy man to read. He mostly keeps to himself.”
Great. That didn’t help me at all.
The elevator opened, and Bunny led me to the landing. I looked around the impressive upper floor. There was only one set of double doors to be seen. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling.
We arrived at the doors, and Bunny rang a bell. A green light flashed and she led me inside. The perfect sound of Andrea Bocelli hit me first, his beautiful voice sailing into my ears. It immediately made me feel calmer, my nerves settling some.
Through the cover of my veil, I peeked at my surroundings. The room was large and gothic in style, in keeping with the rest of the house. Erotic pictures, as in the foyer, hung on every wall. I swallowed hard as all the contraptions I’d seen on the main floor were scattered around the room. And then some. Certain devices in this room looked straight from The Spanish Inquisition’s High Inquisitor’s torture chamber.
Maître was prepared to play. He was prepared to play hard.
“Kneel down,” Bunny ordered, then whispered, “Maître is a master in every sense of the word. He is a dominant in the bedroom. If he wants to play, and you agree, he will require you to be submissive to him. You must decide whether or not that kind of pleasure appeals to you.” Bunny’s words circled my mind as I dropped to my knees. A submissive. Could I be a submissive?
Then I heard a creak on the wooden floor.
“Maître,” Bunny said, awe thick in her voice.
“Pars,” a hard voice said. I held my breath as the word rang out, in stark contrast to the beautiful classical music lacing the air around us.
“Yes, Maître,” Bunny said and left the room.
In the heavy silence, I could hear my
self breathing heavily in anticipation of meeting the infamous man. Then, “Look up.” The command was spoken in a thick French accent.
Obeying the Maître, I looked up and saw a man casually sitting on a large wooden throne-like chair, one leg draped over an ornate winged arm. I lost my breath seeing his entire torso exposed, his chest and abdominals tanned and blessed with tight muscles. He wore black silken pants and nothing on his feet.
My eyes roved to his face. As with the other men, a cloak covered his head and a mask covered his face. It was a white mask similar to that worn by The Phantom of the Opera, but this version of the mask hid more of his face. Bright silver eyes pierced through the holes in the mask, staring back at me. Contacts. A curve of the mask near his mouth exposed one side of his full lips.
Maître, I thought, feeling my stomach clench.
I froze as he got to his feet, moving with the confidence only a man so sure of his power and sexuality could display. He bent down until his eyes were level with mine. I was transfixed by this mysterious man.
Maître pushed back loose strands of hair off my veil. This close, he would be able to see a glimmer of my face through it. As I met his stare head-on, Maître’s eyes flared and the exposed part of his lips curled up in amusement.
“So, you are the source of all the commotion.” It wasn’t a question.
I nodded and sighed in defeat.
I waited for him to tell me I was banned from NOX forever more. What I didn’t expect was for him to say, “You will do, ma chérie. You will do for me very well.”
Chapter Seven